


Book 2: Scorpion Sands

by wandarox



Series: The Soldier and His Servant [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Arab Character, Character of Color, Deaf Character, Desert, F/M, Het and Slash, Historical Fantasy, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Military, Servants, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 225,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandarox/pseuds/wandarox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Raheed and his deaf servant Asan were destined to battle with Hahnars for the Mulli Empire. But things go awry, and they are both exiled to the desert, where the only hope to be found comes in the form of some very hostile Hahnars who aren't terribly enthusiastic about their Mulli visitors. However, while Raheed is imprisoned, Asan is taken in by the leader himself, Sumas Dasaf as if he were a welcome guest. Here Asan is given a choice. If Asan leaves, Raheed will be kept as a prisoner for all time. If Asan stays, Raheed's freedom is granted. Nothing can be determined until Raheed recovers from his near-mortal injuries. In the meantime, Asan comes to learn that perhaps the Hahnars aren't as "savage" as textbooks claimed . . . and that he may have more in common with Dasaf and his people than he ever thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Training

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the first book, "The Soldier and His Servant" if you stumble upon this story by chance. It's meant to be read in order, and there's not a lot of explanation that goes on in the beginning of this story to explain what happened in the last one.

**BOOK 2**

**Scorpion Sands**

* * *

_“And the Third Prophet was thrown from the temple and condemned to ten years of exile in the desert, where he found a Death in the form of a scorpion. But God did rise from the sands and smite the scorpion, then spoke to the Third Prophet and said thus: “I, Almighty God, have saved you from Death. Go now and spread the word that you have seen me and that I am the one true God.” The Third Prophet went to the city of Azarine and told all he knew, and they did fall to their knees in worship, for they knew that the Third Prophet had seen God and that God was gracious.”_

\--Hahnar Scripture, _The Book of the Third Prophet_

* * *

  
**Chapter One: Training**  


 

            Sweat dribbled down Raheed’s scalp and soaked the fabric resting between his head and his helmet, but Raheed did not move to wipe it away. He kept his eyes focused on the training happening just below him. Some soldiers were doing better than others, and even with wooden swords, a few of the younger ones were taking quite a beating. Some looked to him, expecting him to call off the duels so that they may rest. But Raheed only shifted on top of his horse and glanced at Lieutenant Uthal out of the corner of his eye. The boy was seated rod straight atop his own dapple gelding, not even bothering to remove the perspiration from his upper lip. He was insufferable most of the time, but he was well-trained. He took his authority very seriously.

            One of the men stumbled over Raheed’s way and collapsed by Ahmbra’s front legs. Ahmbra took a cautious step back, but Raheed nudged her forward until he was standing over the young soldier, casting him in shadow.

            The soldier ripped off his helmet, face wet with sweat and expression tight with exhaustion.

            “Sir,” he gasped, running a sleeve along his forehead, as his helment had rolled away upon his fall. “Sir, can I please have some water? I am thirsty.”

            Raheed looked down at him blankly before turning to Lieutentant Uthal and nodding. Lieutenant Uthal raised two fingers to his lips and blew a loud whistle, instantly bringing all of the men’s duels to a halt.

            “Asan.” Raheed looked behind him at Asan, who was standing by Raheed’s tent, hands clasped in front of him. He stood at attention when he saw Raheed facing him. “Go get a bucket of water.”

            Asan nodded and rushed off for the camels.

            The soldier got to his hands and knees, breathing heavily. The men watched,  unsure. When Asan returned, Raheed took the bucket by the handle and lifted it, only to pour the entire thing over the soldier’s head. There was a long, tense silence, only broken by the sounds of the boy’s sharp gasp of surprise and protest. Seconds later, the water had already leaked into the ground and disappeared.

            “Still thirsty?” Raheed asked the boy.

            The boy twisted around to face Raheed, gaping in shock.

            Raheed turned to the rest of his troops. “We’ve only been marching a week, but let me make this clear. When we reach the desert, you will _always_ be thirsty.” Raheed chucked the empty bucket down at the boy, narrowly missing his head. “Best get used to it.”

            The entire camp was silent. Lieutenant Uthal gave Raheed a satisfied nod.

            “Keep going,” Raheed said. “You can all stop when I see some improvement!” He twisted around to face the boy at his horse’s feet. “And you. Back to your duel.”

            The boy looked utterly defeated but nodded and did as he was asked. He should think himself lucky, as at least he’d acquired the chance to cool off.

            “Good job, sir,” Lieutenant Uthal murmured. “Men like these need a strong hand.”

            Raheed just grunted. He wasn’t doing it for Uthal’s approval. Fighting the Hahnars required more than a strong hand, and if it meant the men seeing Raheed as a cruel dictator, than so be it. At least they wouldn’t all perish like Raheed’s friends had. Maybe if Raheed pushed them all hard enough, they’d be well-matched.

            Or maybe they’d die like the rest of their kin.

            Raheed supposed it didn’t really matter to him anymore.

 

* * *

           

            “We’ve moved beyond the pass and decided that perhaps the long way around the mountains might be our best option.”

            “It will take months.”

            “Better to take time than take lives, sir,” Colonel Waqas said gravely.

            “I suppose.” Raheed tapped his upper lip as he looked across the map spread before him. He ignored Asan, who bent at his side and refilled his cup of tea before moving and doing the same for Uthal and Waqas. “I would need to know more about Hahnar forces. We’ve been attacking them for years; have they weakened any?”

            “It’s hard to tell. We don’t have much information on them.”

            “Why not?”

            “They are an elusive people. According to reports we have attempted to kidnap a few for interrogation, but most of them are Matij and poison themselves before we can extract any information.”

            Raheed shook his head. “No, the Matij don’t know anything important. They are nomads, and as far as I know, they don’t even like the Hahnars.”

            “They _are_ Hahnars, sir,” Uthal said.

            “Of sorts. They have no real ties to the original sect aside perhaps from their appearance and a few traditions. The Matij are not a problem.”

            “Sir, I must beg to differ. They are a constant bother to the troops that pass through their territory.”

            “Exactly, a _bother,_ a nusiance. They know they can’t defeat us with numbers so they attack in the night and then run away as soon as things do not go in their favor. If the Hahnars fall, then the Matij will not be a problem of ours.”

            “And Khamal, sir?” Waqas asked.

            There was a clatter, which brought all three officers’ gazes to Asan, who must have briefly lost his hold of the tray on which he carried the tea and cups. Nothing was broken, so Raheed returned to the map and his conversation, but Uthal frowned.

            “Are you sure it’s wise to bring that servant with us, sir? A pampered house servant does not thrive well in the desert.”

            Raheed sent Uthal a rather withering look. “Don’t question my judgment, lieutentant.”

            Uthal nodded, still looking sour. “I apologize, sir.”

             “Khamal _would_ be of strategical importance, sir,” Waqas said, throwing a nervous look at Asan before continuing. “They are a water source very close to Hahnar territory.”

            “You can fight the Hahnars or you can fight the Khamal. Pick one.”

            “Sir, the Khamal live in only one city and its surrounding farmland. It would be easy—”

            “They said the Hahnars would be easy, years ago. You don’t pick battles with potential allies unless it is a necessity.”

            “Potential allies?” Uthal scoffed. “The Khamal hate us even more than the Hahnars do, if that’s even possible.”

            “Sir,” Waqas asked, “is it true you’ve seen the Khamal and their Sumas?”  
            Raheed stiffened but answered, “Yes. I was briefly a prisoner there.”

            “And?” Uthal insisted. “What did you learn of them?”

            “I did not see much.”

            “I’m shocked they released you at all, sir. Is there a reason?”

            Raheed tapped his fingers on the map for a moment, frowning. The wind tugged at the sides of his tent, and Raheed’s horse nickered lightly just outside. “I suppose there wasn’t a _reason_.”

            “But there had to be, sir. Why else would they release you?”

            “Perhaps they saw me as harmless.”

            Waqas scoffed in disbelief. “But, _sir_ —”

            “I wasn’t a captain back then, just a lowly foot soldier. I was about your age, Uthal, but clueless. It was a bit of a fool, naïve. The Sumas was about my age and perhaps a tad foolish as well.”

            “I’d say! He released the general too!”

            “I wouldn’t underestimate him, or his people.” Raheed fell quiet a moment, remembering Dasaf’s words: _If you ever step foot again on Khamal land, I will slit your throat myself before you can so much as open your mouth to greet me_. “We should focus on the Hahnars beyond the mountain. They are our true target. If we have them, Khamal will fall.”

            “Khamal would make a good base though, sir.”

            “Not if we’re going around the mountains and not through the pass.”

            Uthal and Waqas seemed to find agreement in that, and luckily they dropped the topic of Khamal.

            After more dicussion of military tactics, Waqas and Uthal bid him goodnight and left his tent. Raheed pulled off his helmet and shrugged off his cape with a sigh of relief. Armor would save his life in battle, but wearing it every day all day might kill him before he even saw battle. It was necessary to look the part of a captain when commanding troops, but he looked forward to sleep more and more every day.

            Raheed began to pull off his boots, but his sweat made the leather stick. Before he could struggle further, Asan knelt at his side and assisted him. Once the boots were off, Raheed tossed them in the same pile with his cape and helmet. Asan helped him remove everything save the simple white caftan beneath, something loose and partially open at the chest. It allowed air to access every place where perspiration remained, which allowed some of the tension in his shoulders to relax. He would love to have a bath as well, but they would not reach a town for at least a week more.

            “Get me my canteen,” Raheed told Asan, gesturing impatiently.

            Asan frowned, hesitating.

            “Asan,” Raheed warned with a glare, so Asan stood and retrieved Raheed’s canteen, filled with _arak_ purchased from the last town they’d visited. Raheed took a healthy swig, sighing as the liquid burned his throat. He caught Asan’s gaze.

            “Don’t give me that look,” Raheed scolded, taking another drink. “Are you my mother? I didn’t bring you along so that you could chide me.”

            Asan just shook his head and walked across the tent to his mat by the tent entrance. When he sat, he signed, _You should not have dumped that water on that soldier_.

            “Oh, so you’re a captain now as well as my mother?” Raheed sneered. “I suppose I have a multi-talented servant now. How lucky for me.”

            Asan stared at him a moment before lowering his gaze. _You don’t sign anymore_.

            Raheed opened his mouth to protest, but Asan was right. Finally he shrugged. “I suppose now that you can read lips there’s not much point, is there?”

            _I can read signs easier_.

            “You seem to do just fine reading lips.” Raheed took one last sip from  his canteen before turning and rearranging the few pillows on his sleeping mat. “Wake me at sunrise then.”

            Asan nodded and settled down onto his own mat, rolling over so that his back was to Raheed. Raheed sat there and stared at Asan’s back a long time, probably long past the point at which Asan had fallen into slumber.

            With a sigh of defeat, Raheed whispered, “I’m sorry, Asan,” before curling up on his own mat and digging his face into a pillow. To the sounds of wind whistling through the flaps in their tent, they slept.

 

* * *

 

            As they neared the border of what had always been Mulli and what had newly become Mulli territory, they were allowed a week to set up camp and renew their supplies at the local village. It was a bit more than a village, and big settlements often meant bigger brothels. Raheed listened to some of the soldiers whisper to each other, heard the odd plan here or there to pay the town a visit at night. Raheed considered ordering them all into their tents, but he wondered why he even bothered. They’d sneak out anyway and waste what few coins Mulli paid them.

            As night fell and torches were lit, Raheed patrolled around the camp, nodding at soldiers he passed and counting their camels to make sure that none had gone missing. He stepped over to Nutmeg and fed her some of Ahmbra’s grain, which she seemd to thoroughly enjoy. After giving her neck a firm pat, he moved toward the night’s watch, one of whom was Corporal Waqas.

            “Quiet?” Raheed asked.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Of course. We’re not even in enemy territory yet.” Raheed looked out across the flat landscape, a view interrupted only occasionally by a scrubby tree or bush. “It will be a while before we get there.”

            “Quiet is fine with me, sir.”

            “Me too.” Raheed paused as the sound of distant laughter was picked up by the wind. “You weren’t going into the village tonight, were you?”

            “What for, sir?”

            Raheed shook his head with a chuckle. “Don’t play naïve with me, corporal.”

            Waqas kicked a rock with the toe of his boot. “I haven’t much interest in whores, sir.”

            “No?”

            “Not really. There’s a girl back in Ayllamal . . .” Waqas rubbed his cheek with his palm. “A servant girl.”

            “Ah.”

            “I know I don’t have anything to offer her, but she seems to like me despite of that. I imagine by the time I return, she’ll be married to someone else.”

            “That’s how things are, I suppose.”

            “Have you ever . . .?” Waqas asked hesitantly, almost shyly.

            “No, not really. All my bridges have been burned.”

            “That is wise, sir.”

            “I’m not wise. In fact, I’m incredibly stupid. But I know better now at least.”

            “Sir?”

            Raheed patted the man on the back affectionately. “Best not worry too much about your servant girl, Waqas. Time that feels fleeting to us is infinite to those who remain in Ayllamal.”

            “Do you think we’ll beat the Hahnars?”

            Raheed considered whether honesty or hope was the best route. He went with honesty. “I don’t know.”

            “You fought them.”

            “I did.” Raheed tapped the scar on his forehead. “And I didn’t live through some heroic act, I can assure you. Most of it was luck and perhaps a little bit of acting.”

            Waqas nervously played with the belt around his waist, unlatching and latching the buckle. “I don’t know anything about them.”

            “That’s probably best. It’s easy to kill people you know nothing about.”

            “You met one. You spoke to him.”

            “How did you know all of this?”

            Waqas shrugged. “We were told our captain had once been captured by the Khamal Hahnars and lived to tell the tale. I suppose they wanted us to see you as a hero.”

            Raheed couldn’t help but snort at the idea. Ah yes, the brave hero, lying through his teeth about being the lover of his general. How noble. Certainly he’d be written into Mulli history for such valor.

            “The men still don’t know what to think of you.”

            “It’s a good thing. No attachments, no regrets.”

            “They should have some loyalty to you, sir. Perhaps if you gave them a few tidbits, perhaps a tale of your time with the Khamal—”

            “And let them lift me up to that sparkling view that these circulating stories have shown me in? No, I think it’s best that they feel ambiguous. I don’t need them to like me. I just need them to respect my command.”

            “They already do that, sir.”

            “Really.”

            “Yes, sir. You are _bhanak_ and yet you are a captain. It inspires them. None of us have ever been under a _bhanak_ officer, only corporals and sergeants. And before you it was the lieutentant—” Waqas bit his lip.

            “What about the lieutenant?”

            “Nothing, sir. But he is not _bhanak_ and therefore the men do not identify with him. If I may speak freely—”

            “Of course.”

            “The men believe that no Mulli-by-blood works for his position, so they do not inherently respect the lieutenant.” Waqas’s voice was hushed, almost afraid.

            “Hmmm.” Raheed had sensed that typical Mulli-by-blood arrogance in Uthal, but nothing quite so irritating as the Lieutenant General’s. Of course, he was still a boy and had plenty of time to work himself up to the Yussam’s level. Maybe Raheed could nip that pride in the bud before it became unbearable.

            “Do you respect him, Waqas?”

            “Sir, it is not right for me to speak ill of any of my commanding—”

            “That groveling bullshit they teach you in Ayllamal doesn’t fly with me here. When someone puts a sword through me, it won’t kill me any slower than it does you. We’re both _bhanak_ , so let us consider one another equals. Do you respect Uthal?”

            Waqas’s lips thinned as he replied, “I’m not sure, sir.”

            “Bullshit.”

            “Sir—”

            “You told me the men don’t respect him, and I’m sure you’re in agreement with them.”

            Waqas turned away, a silent affirmation.

            “I’ll see what I can do with him. It will be difficult, considering that most Mulli-by-bloods think they are better than any _bhanak_ , be he captain or general. It’s a shame General Mamid can’t be here to whip you all into shape. He’s very good at rallying troops.”

            “I’ve only met the general once. He seemed . . . stern.”

            “It takes getting used to, that’s all.”

            “But is he what they say he is?”

            “Well . . .” Raheed found it difficult to answer, because he wasn’t sure what others said. He recalled what he’d heard of General Mamid before he became acquainted with the man, but he wasn’t sure if it was still true. “He is a brilliant leader and strategist. But I don’t know anyone who takes his status less seriously than he does.” Raheed frowned. “He’s not a happy man.”

            “Someone told me once that happiness is a luxury only Mulli-by-bloods can afford.”

            Raheed chuckled, but it held no humor. “Truer wisdom has not been spoken.”

            “But the general is _bhanak_ , and I believe every man here would follow him to the grave.”

            Raheed reached out and clapped a hand on Waqas’s shoulder. “I believe they will, corporal. I believe they will.”


	2. Fasa

         

            Asan was brushing down Raheed’s horse when he felt something thump against his back. He twisted around to find that Lieutenant Uthal had thrown his horse’s reins at him.

            “If I can’t see my reflection in this horse’s hide by tomorrow, perhaps I’ll strap yours,” the officer said with his usual cruel sneer before marching off, his cape leaving swirls of sand in his wake. Asan glared at his back with such ferocity that he imagined Uthal catching fire from it. He was all words, of course, because nothing happened in this camp without Raheed’s approval. Raheed didn’t give a damn about how brightly Uthal’s horse shined, and knowing that provided Asan some comfort.

            He bent and picked up the Uthal’s horse’s reins, trying not to dislike the horse too. It couldn’t help that its owner was a pompous ass. He reached up to stroke the dapple’s forehead, and the gelding leaned into the contact.

            _You should throw him off_ , Asan told the horse. _And trample him, just for me_.

            Asan moved to the dapple’s saddle and began to remove it, watching the troops mill around him. They’d been marching for a few weeks now, most of it through endless, empty desert. Spirits were certainly low, and boredom was high. Asan quickly learned to stay out of sight because even if the men couldn’t abuse Asan in Raheed’s presence, they could certainly shove him and mock him when Raheed was in his tent. They knew Asan wouldn’t tell, as doing so would only put him in bigger danger. Raheed couldn’t be everywhere, and Asan couldn’t spend the whole day in his tent, as much as he wanted to.

            Of course, not _all_ the soldiers were cruel. In fact, the majority seemed to ignore him. But it was hard for Asan not to see them all as enemies, so he made no attempt to befriend anyone. Raheed was either commanding his men or drunk, which made it equally as hard to socialize. So Asan cared for his animals and read the three books he’d brought with him, over and over, especially the book about Hahnars. He’d pulled out his sketchbook and drawn the _jusefs_ by the light of dusk or dawn, the only time he had any privacy. He almost felt like he knew the men by now, that if they rode by he could wave to them and they would wave back.

            Asan spent the next hour cleaning the gelding from crown to fetlock before moving to the tack, which he was sure Uthal would want scrubbed down as well. Asan yearned for the marketplace at Ayllamal, where he’d come upon some rather mischievous itching powders he could have doused the whole saddle in. He smiled at the thought of Uthal scratching his rear end all day. Maybe then the men would laugh at him instead of Asan.

            Corporal Waqas emerged from his tent, just beyond the horses where Asan stood. He never interacted with Asan much—he had no horse to force Asan to clean—but he never treated Asan rudely either, which made Asan prefer his company to others’. He even dared a bow in Waqas’s direction when the corporal glanced over. To Asan’s dismay, Messenger darted over to Waqas and jumped up to greet him. Uthal would have kicked the mutt, but Waqas bent over to pet him with a small smile. Nutmeg, always curious, turned her head and attempted to eat Waqas’s hair. Asan bit back a laugh, because Nutmeg was a very amorous camel, much to Raheed’s discontent. She liked to eat Raheed’s clothing whenever he was within reach.

            “What is her name?” Waqas suddenly asked, which jerked Asan from his pleasant memory.

            Asan bowed his head quickly and said, “Nutmeg, sir.”

            Waqas only pet her a few more times before moving on. But the fact that he had asked at all put him in the top ten people whose company Asan could tolerate.

            Once it was dark, Asan returned to the tent with Ahmbra’s bridle, which he intended to clean by lamplight. The men weren’t allowed candles or lamps, but Raheed was granted the privilege as an officer. Asan took advantage of such more than Raheed ever did, as Raheed needn’t any light to drink until he passed out.

            When Raheed entered, he immediately dropped his helmet by the front flap and kicked off his boots brusquely. Asan stood to help him remove his cloak and armor, but Raheed shoved him away and did so on his own. Asan was used to this treatment by now and simply poured Raheed the _arak_ he’d surely be demanding in a few seconds. Raheed took the tin cup offered and downed it in one swig, wincing for a moment and then thrusting the cup at Asan. Asan took it from him without protest.

            “What are you doing?” Raheed asked.

            _Cleaning your bridle_ , Asan said, sitting again and keeping his gaze downward. He was only able to read Raheed’s lips out of the corner of his eye.

            “You can do that tomorrow in better light. Why don’t you go to bed?”

            _I prefer to work when it’s cool_.

            Raheed collapsed onto his bedding and ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t speak, so Asan assumed the argument was over. He returned to a buckle on Ahmbra’s bridle, scrubbing the silver until it shone. He only looked up when he saw movement. Raheed was reaching for the three books stacked near Asan’s pillow. Before Asan could stop him, Raheed snatched the one on top and pulled it open.

            “Hahnars, huh?” Raheed pursed his lips as the book fell open to where Asan had bookmarked it with a drawing. Asan’s stomach dropped, and dread turned his skin colder than the desert night.

            Raheed lifted eyes to Asan, who had frozen in terror. Raheed pulled the piece of parchment out of the book and held it closer to the lamp in order to inspect it.

            Asan couldn’t stop himself. He leapt to a stand and snatched the drawing so quickly out of Raheed’s hand that he felt the edge tear. Raheed looked both baffled and confused.

            “You’re much better than I remember,” Raheed said, which wasn’t what Asan had been expecting. “It looks very close to the drawing. Though . . .” Raheed eyed the book for a moment. “Perhaps you’ve chosen objectionable subject matter.”

            _I’ve redrawn everything in the book, not just these . . . men_. Asan clutched the drawing to his chest, where it was safe. He felt connected to these people, even if he would never meet them. They kept him occupied during those few private moments he treasured, and they did not ridicule him like some of the soldiers did. He created elaborate fantasies in which they met him and included him. He would tell them about his feelings for Raheed, and they would _understand_. His heart swelled at the thought of it.

            “Can I see it?” Raheed asked.

            Asan shook his head. _I have others. You can look at those._

“I want to see that one.”

            They stared at each other a long time before Asan submitted, bowing his head and handing over the drawing. Raheed placed it up against the illustration in the book, eyebrows creasing his forehead.

            “I remember reading about this,” he said. “I never told you this, but this little blurb here saved my life. When the Hahnars had me and prepared to kill the general, I told them he was my _jusef_.”

            Asan’s eyes grew with surprise.

            “They didn’t believe me of course, but it gave them pause. I’m unlike Elder Hassad in that I think education of all things is important, be it inappropriate or not.” Raheed flipped through a few pages, then paused at another drawing Asan had folded up and placed within. When Raheed unfolded it, he appeared shocked. He held up the drawing for Asan to see: the Khamal scorpion pin.

            “Why did you draw this?” he asked.

            _I told you. I drew everything in that book_.

            Raheed stared at the drawing for a good ten seconds before slowly standing. When Asan reached out to take the book he offered, Raheed grabbed his hand and held it.

            “Why did you bring this book, above all the others?” Raheed asked, standing just an arms length away now. He did not smell of roses, that was for certain, but Asan didn’t either. It would probably be another month before they reached civilization again, so baths were out of the question.

            _You said you were going to fight Hahnars_. _I thought it would be important._

“I’m not an idiot. You packed these books before you even knew you were coming with me.”

            Asan bit his lip with indecision.

            Raheed sighed heavily and let go of Asan’s hand. “I know that other cultures are interesting and often tempting when compared to servitude for the Mulli empire, but the Hahnars would kill me without a second glance, and perhaps you as well. If they didn’t kill you, they’d capture you and take you as a slave. At least as a servant you have the option to leave. I am fine with you reading about the Hahnars—education saved me years ago—but please don’t sympathize with them or think them equals. They’ll carve out your heart and won’t think twice. A Hahnar gave me this,” Raheed reached up to touch the scar on his forehead, “by accident. He was truly aiming for this.” Raheed drew a slit across his throat.

            Asan nodded and pressed the book against his chest. Raheed moved past Asan and grabbed his bottle of _arak_ before returning to his bed to drink it.

 

* * *

 

            When they reached the first small town they’d seen in two months, Raheed was expecting a night of gaiety. Instead, they were attacked by a swarm of angry villagers wielding pitchforks and spears. What they were attempting was already stupid, even if they hadn’t known that after two months of doing absolutely nothing, Raheed’s men were chomping at the bit. They wanted to kill something, and the villagers provided them ample opportunity to do so.

            If it had been less of a surprise, Raheed would have managed far better than he had. But it seemed like it took only seconds for his men to break their ranks and chase villagers into the dark and rocky hills of their destination. He could only be glad that Lieutenant Uthal and Corporal Waqas immediately turned to him and waited for his command, much like everyone else should have done.

            “Lieutenant, rein those damn men in here! I don’t care if you have to chase down each and every single one, but bring them back to the group and do whatever it takes to keep them here. Corporal Waqas, protect our rear and our camels! If they steal our supplies—”

            “Yes, sir!” both men barked. Lieutenant Uthal kicked his horse into a canter, shouting at whatever soldier he could find and ordering him back into formation. Raheed did the same, though he kept a tight perimeter around their caravan, making sure that no villager was able to break through and sabotage their supplies. When a young bearded man in a tattered tunic attempted to strike Raheed from his horse, Raheed beheaded him with one swipe of his arm. When Ahmbra jolted, he twisted her around just in time to stab another who had come at him from behind. He spotted another villager rushing toward Asan and his camel, so Raheed urged Ahmbra into a gallop and sliced the man across the chest without even slowing down. The man’s spear had fallen on top of him, so Raheed was able to lean down and snatch it up. He thrust the weapon at Asan, whose entire complexion had gone white with fear.

            “Use it!” Raheed snapped, then spun his horse around to find more targets.

             The battle didn’t last very long, and Raheed wondered why such poor villagers would even attempt such a thing. Perhaps they had been overconfident, fighting in the dark against a rather exhausted army. Considering how they’d been decimated in a matter of minutes, Raheed doubted such an uprising would ever occur again.

            The fight had taken them to the center of the village, a tiny establishment with what looked like a population of a dozen. All the window shutters had been drawn and locked, probably the men’s families attempting to stay safe. When Raheed saw several of his men beating on the doors, he hauled them back and tossed them back into the ranks. Some of the men cursed him through bloody lips, but Raheed struck them to shut them up. If they were going to act like a bunch of rabid dogs, then he was going to treat them that way. Luckily it only took a few hits before the rest of the men fell into line and behaved themselves. He must look mad, because he saw fear in some of their eyes.

            “We set up camp!” Raheed ordered. “Now!”

            It seemed to take longer to find all his men than it did to kill the villagers. By the time the tents had been erected just outside of the village square, Raheed finally found his last cluster in a narrow alley between houses, assaulting what looked like a thin, lone figure. For a brief moment Raheed thought it was a wild-haired boy, but then he saw that the figure was nearly nude, her breasts small but undeniably present. She was shrieking and snarling like a cornered animal, but she would be fighting a losing battle against six Mulli soldiers who hadn’t seen a woman in months.

            “All of you, stand down!” Raheed barked, his voice amplified in such a narrow corridor.

            The majority of the men paused at least, giving Raheed the time to push his horse through the fray and shove them back manually. Luckily Uthal, who had been drawn to the scuffle shortly after Raheed, quickly joined him.

            “Sir, she was fighting with the men!” complained one as he attempted to crush her against a wall. She was still shouting in whatever was her native language, teeth gnashing. “We were apprehending her!”

            “And removing her clothing was necessary for this?”

            “Spoils of war,” muttered another, one whose name Raheed could not quite recall.

            Raheed frowned, then watched the woman struggle a few more seconds before saying, “Tie her up. Then bring her to the camp.”

            “Yes, sir!”

            The men setting up camp just outside the village had already lit torches, which made the prisoner easier to see. She really did have some wild hair, curls so tight that they spiraled out more than downward. Raheed assessed her features and believed her to be at least half-Hahnar. Despite the boyish shape of her body, Raheed assumed her to be perhaps Asan’s age, if not just a few years younger. She certainly drew hungry stares as she was marched to the center of the camp, her mouth bloody and a bruise forming along her temple. A raging fire burned in her dark eyes, a gaze that promised murder. Even if she was the enemy, Raheed couldn’t help but feel a shred of respect for her vigor.

            “What do you think we should do, sir?” Corporal Waqas asked, face tinged with a blush as he kept his eyes from her nearly naked form.

            “I think we should show the bitch what happens to whores that fight Mulli soldiers,” Uthal said. “Let the men have her a few nights. Maybe she’ll think twice about defying us again.”

            There were some nods and murmurs of agreement, though many of the men looked at one another as if unsure. They were waiting for Raheed’s order, which perhaps they should have done _before_ this whole mess.

            Raheed strode forward and stood in front of the woman, appraising her. Just as he reached out to touch her shoulder, she spit a wad of bloody saliva at his chin. Before he could react, Uthal had thrown himself from his horse and smacked her across the face. She let out a cry of pain but shed no tears. She merely lifted hate-filled eyes to meet Raheed’s.

            Raheed stared at her a moment before turning to Uthal.

            “Put her in my tent.”

            Uthal smirked and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

            When Uthal moved forward to take her arm, Raheed said, “Make sure no one comes in or out of that tent except for me and my servant.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Raheed nodded and let them drag the wild-haired girl away.

           

* * *

 

            Asan was just rolling out Raheed’s bedding when the flap of the tent was tossed open and a half-nude woman was dragged inside by several men. Asan barely had time to get out of their way before they were tying her to the center post of the tent. Her legs and arms were flailing like that of a newborn calf, but she was of small frame and couldn’t do much damage. Once they secured her arms behind her back, they shoved a cloth to keep her from spitting, which she had already attempted on one of the shorter soldiers. The biggest of the men leaned down and cupped one of her breasts with a hand, laughing. Asan quickly stood, unsure of how to proceed. The soldiers would shove him back and probably harm him as well if he intervened. But he couldn’t allow such abuse to continue, so he pushed against one of them and jerked a finger toward the tent flap.

            “She isn’t _yours_ , servant,” the man replied. “We’re here to make sure you don’t touch her.”

            Asan growled and kept demanding they leave with an indignant pointed finger. After groping her a few seconds longer, the men finally decided to wander out. Asan quickly tied the tent flap behind them, which wouldn’t keep out any intruders but may award the woman some privacy.

            When Asan stepped toward her, he held up his hands in surrender, but it did not lessen the intensity of her glare. She reminded him of a cobra, even tied and gagged. He’d never met a woman so fierce, so he didn’t dare approach her without a plan. How could he communicate his good intentions? She definitely thought him another pervert, and he saw no way to relieve her of such an impression.

            He didn’t have much more time to think about it, because a hand untied the tent flap and a figure pushed into the tent. Asan stiffened, thinking it could be Uthal. But then Raheed removed his helmet and Asan let out a sigh of relief.

            Raheed reached down to remove the cloth from the woman’s mouth. “Who gagged—” He jerked his hand away as she jolted, as if planning to bite him. Of course she couldn’t with something in her mouth, but Raheed gave Asan a wary look, as if asking _him_ to do her the favor. But Asan valued his fingers just as much as Raheed.

            “Alright, fine.” Raheed pulled off his cloak, stained with blood and scattered with particles of sand. He stepped up in front of the woman and laid it across her torso, protecting her nudity from further view. “There. That better?” Raheed ran a hand through his hair. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

            Feeling daring, Asan finally bent down and took a corner of the gag. With a quick yank, he was able to remove it from her mouth without getting bitten or spit on. That didn’t mean she failed to attempt it. She spat at Raheed’s feet, snapping, “ _Fuck you, Mulli dogs_.”

            Raheed lifted his eyebrows. “You speak Aillic?”

            “I know enough,” she replied, her Aillic heavily accented.  
            “Well, then you’ll understand me when I say that nothing will happen to you while you remain in this tent. You are safe with Asan and me.”   

            “You are not safe with me,” she snapped. “Untie me and I will slit _both_ your throats.”

            “What a cogent argument _not_ to untie you then.”

            “I do not trust men, let alone _Mulli dogs_. Your promises mean nothing. I know how you are, how every man is. So I’d rather  you do it now and be mere Mulli dogs instead of Mulli dogs who lie.”

            Raheed sighed and looked to Asan, as if asking for help. Asan shrugged.

            “You can think us liars. You can think whatever you like as long as you’re tied up. I still think you’d rather be in here than out there with the men.” Raheed jerked his head over his shoulder.

            “I’d rather be dead.”

            “You’ve made that rather clear.”

            “Kill me.” She lifted her chin, extending her neck. “Kill me now and dump my body like you did all those other men.”

            “Don’t tempt me.” Raheed moved across the tent and pulled off his chest plate. Everything had happened so quickly tonight that Asan hadn’t much time to think about what Raheed had done before this woman’s capture. Now that he _was_ thinking about it, he had to look away from Raheed’s blood-speckled armor. He’d never seen Raheed harm anyone, let alone kill them. The memory of Raheed slicing through a man’s neck with no more than a swipe of his sword would definitely be haunting Asan tonight. In fact, his hands were already trembling at the recollection. How many times had he treated Raheed’s orders with disdain? All while Raheed had the ability and ease to cut his head off?

            Asan touched his neck thinking about it.

            “I’m sorry about those men, but you can’t expect that we’d spare the lives of villagers who attacked us.” Raheed turned, wiping his hands on a rag that Asan would most definitely have to clean later. “We haven’t found any other women except you.”

            “They all left,” the woman muttered, still tugging on her bonds. “Everyone’s gone.” She turned her head to meet Raheed’s gaze. “And don’t apologize to me. Those men were worth nothing to me.”

            “Then what exactly are you doing here?”

            “I was kept here by my husband while his other two wives and children ran off. I suppose he valued their lives.”

            Raheed grabbed a pitcher of water and poured himself a glass. Asan noticed how the woman’s eyes glanced briefly at it, thirsty.

            “You are half Hahnar, aren’t you?” Raheed asked, taking a sip.

            Her eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck do you care?”

            Raheed clucked his tongue in disapproval. “What kind of language is that for a young woman to have?”

            Asan crossed the tent and poured another glass of water. Then he returned and crouched at the woman’s side. She jerked away reflexively, glaring at the glass that Asan offered.

            “I don’t want it,” she hissed.

            “Drink it,” Raheed ordered. “Might clean up your mouth a little.”

            “Go die, Mulli dog.”

            “My name is Raheed. _Mulli Dog_ is his name.” Raheed pointed to Messenger, who was watching the proceedings with a rather bored look on his face. Raheed chuckled at his own joke, but Asan rolled his eyes. “What is your name?”

            The woman said nothing, her eyes sliding over to Asan. Asan held up the glass again, a peaceful offering. Finally she moved her head toward him, so Asan guided the lip of the glass to her mouth and tipped the water through her lips. She gargled the water a moment before spitting it out, which helped clear the bloodstain from her teeth. The second sip she took she swallowed, as well as the third. Finally she turned away, and Asan stood, moving away to give her some space.

            “If you give me your name, I’ll stop talking,” Raheed said.

            It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Fasa.”

            “Good. Nice to meet you, Fasa.”

            She lifted an eyebrow and scowled, a clear expression of complete disdain. Raheed fulfilled his promise and turned to Asan instead.

            “I’m not bleeding anywhere, am I?”

            Asan searched Raheed’s face and neck and couldn’t find anything. He knew it was necessary to ask because sometimes the rush of battle made wounds numb. At least, that’s what Raheed had told him. Apparently he’d gotten a rather bad slice through his side once and didn’t even notice until he passed out an hour later from blood loss.

            Asan helped Raheed undress, though he kept on his loose undershirt and trousers out of respect for Fasa, who seemed to have no interest in the proceedings. Shortly afterward, Raheed collapsed onto his mat and fell asleep, leaving Asan to clean up the mess he’d left behind.

            Asan picked up the chest plate, wincing at the shimmer of speckled blood across the front. With a sigh, he went to retrieve a bucket of water to clean it with. He noticed that Raheed had stationed two soldiers outside of his tent, ones that Asan recognized as favorites of Raheed’s. They were talking quietly to themselves, though they paused when Asan returned to the tent. So far they hadn’t been cruel to him, but Asan tensed anyway, waiting for them to bar his entrance to the tent. But they stepped aside and allowed him in, both trying to get a glance of Fasa before he tied the flaps behind him.

            Asan sat down on his mat and began to clean off Raheed’s armor, deciding to leave the clothing for tomorrow. He paused when he saw Fasa wiggling, then looked up at her. All of her fierceness was gone, replaced by coy determination.

            “Your name is Asan, no?” she asked, shifting under Raheed’s cloak so that it drooped lower on her shoulders.

            Asan nodded cautiously.

            “These ropes hurt,” she continued, the cloak now dropping down to uncover a breast. Dark eyes held his, and there was a flash of white as she bit down on her lower lip. “Please. Can you just loosen them a little bit? I can’t feel my hands.”

            Asan stared at her blankly, unmoving.

            “I’d do you a favor in return.” Her eyes dropped to Asan’s groin. “I know what you Mulli men think about Hahnar women. Want to see if it’s true?”

            Asan had to hold back a laugh. She had picked the wrong man to seduce.

            “Not Mulli,” Asan replied, pointing to himself. “Khafa.”

            “Oh.” She faltered briefly, but then the smile was back. “No matter. Offer still stands.” She pushed a shoulder forward in what Asan supposed was an enticing pose. “Can you help me? I’d be eternally grateful.”

            Asan stood, walking toward her. As he did so, she pursed her lips and positioned herself in a welcoming pose, but then Asan walked right past her and picked up the pitcher of water. He returned with another glass.

            “I don’t want _water_ ,” she snapped. “Untie me. Are you simple? I suppose you might be, being a servant—”

            Asan shoved the rag back in her mouth and dumped the water he had poured. Then he walked back to his mat and returned to cleaning Raheed’s armor.

 

* * *

 

            “What are you planning on doing with her?”

            Raheed peered into the distance, holding out the map in front of him. Ahmbra pawed the earth beneath him. “I don’t know. Keep her for my own personal enjoyment?”

            With a frown, Uthal replied, “She should be shared with the other officers.”

            Raheed glanced over at him. “And who will decide that, Uthal?”

            Uthal looked away, jaw set. “You will, sir.”

            “Exactly. I say she stays in my tent, with me. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You have any complaints to lobby, Corporal?” Raheed looked down at Corporal Waqas, who jolted to attention.

            “No, sir.”  
            “Good. Now that you’re all done being petulant . . . we searched the village, correct?”

            “Yes, sir,” Corporal Waqas replied. “There’s no one, sir.”

            “Hmm. Odd. These sorts of people live in one village their whole lives. Why would they all just leave?”

            “To escape us, sir?”

            “We wouldn’t have done them any harm. At least, if they didn’t resist.”

            “They’re idiots,” Uthal said. “What more do you expect of these borderland peasants?”

            Raheed was silent a moment, then continued. “Do we know if someone passed through here before us? Another troop, perhaps?”

            “It’s possible.”

            “Maybe they left a long time ago and some came back for revenge.”  
            “It is rather desolate, sir. The food we found was either rotting or stale. There are a few dogs roaming about, but no livestock of any use.”  
            “Damnit.” Raheed rolled up his map and tucked it beneath his belt. “Well, we’ll scavenge what we can. Maybe we’ll learn more as we continue to the next village. And after that . . .” Raheed raised a hand to protect his eyes from the sun, “the mountains.” And beyond them, the Hahnars.

            Raheed would be ready for them this time.

 

* * *

 

            They left that afternoon, headed for the mountains. Raheed had to consider what they might do with Fasa. The best place, of course, would be to put her on Ahmbra with him, as that meant no one would bother her. But he knew how much she’d hate that, and he didn’t particularly want it either. Finally Asan agreed to walk if Fasa rode Nutmeg, who was finally learning to carry human weight. Raheed thought this the best plan of action, so he tied her atop of Nutmeg and gave Asan a knife in case she misbehaved. He didn’t think she would, but if she somehow freed herself, he had no doubt she was capable of harm. Asan would need to protect himself.

            Fasa didn’t speak the next few days of travel. She ate what was given to her with a sour expression and provided a few bathroom breaks that were not watched but still supervised. Raheed didn’t know what to do with her. He couldn’t let her go; that would be seen as too kind, as she _had_ attacked his men. The other option was to kill her, but she hadn’t actually harmed anyone outside of a few scrapes, so that seemed too severe. He wouldn’t have so much minded her presence if she didn’t require constant supervision. While most of the men heeded Raheed’s orders without fail, some were full of lust and curiosity, and they’d be upon her the moment Raheed turned his back. Raheed didn’t like her, but he didn’t wish that upon anyone.

            As they set up camp at the base of the first mountain, Raheed and Asan took dinner in their tent, along with Fasa. By now they’d dressed her in a caftan and trousers like the rest of the men, though her bushy hair gave her away as female. A delicate trust had begun to grow between them, and she didn’t call Raheed a Mulli dog anymore. He knew, however, that the moment those chains came off, she’d have a sword at his throat.

            “How did you learn Aillic?” Raheed asked her over a meal of lentils and bread.

            “My mother knew it,” she muttered, then lifted her eyes. “My mother was a slave.”

            “A Hahnar slave.”

            “Yes.”

            “She must have been learned, to know Aillic as a Hahnar.”

            “She knew many languages. She’d been a slave for a long time.” Fasa took a sip of water from the glass Asan offered her. “She thought I could use Aillic so she taught it to me.”

            “Where is she now?”

            “Dead.”  
            Raheed had suspected so much. “Your husband. Was he one of the men killed in the village?”

            “I hope so. I was sold to him like a goat to fuck.” She reached a finger into her mouth and scraped at a tooth. If not for the fact that she was female, Raheed would have assumed her just another soldier. She had the manners of one. “He beat me, but beatings mean nothing. Everyone beats me. Even my mother did. Told me she was doing me a favor, getting me used to it.”

            Raheed looked over at Asan. If anyone knew what regular beatings were like, it would be him.

            “So if you hated your husband, why fight Mullis?”

            “Because Mullis are just as bad. They will rape you and then beat you and then probably kill you, and that is how they are. They are men.” She shrugged. “It is a thing men do.”

            “Not all men.”

            “Who cares. Most do.”

            “Well, I don’t.”

            Fasa snorted. “Give it time. You will change.”

            Raheed didn’t see any point in arguing with her, so he continued eating in silence. Messenger trotted over from his resting place on Asan’s bed and placed his head on Asan’s lap, tail thumping against the ground. Asan surreptitiously fed him a small piece of bread from beneath his arm. Raheed had thought a reformed beggar boy would know better than to indulge a beggar dog.

            “What is wrong with him?” Fasa asked, jerking her chin at Asan.

            “Asan? Nothing. He is fine.” 

            “He doesn’t talk.”

            “He is deaf.”

            She frowned. “What is that?”

            “He cannot hear.”

            For the first time, she looked surprised. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

            Raheed shook his head.

            “How does he understand?”

            “He can read lips. And signs. For example . . .” Raheed twisted to face Asan, who had tuned back into the conversation. He signed _She wants to see us sign. She didn’t know you were deaf._

_Are you sure she’s not_ simple _?_ Asan replied.

            “I’ve never seen such a thing,” Fasa said. “Where did you learn that?”

            “We made it up,” Raheed replied with some pride. “Asan grew up as a beggar boy in Khafa. When I learned about his . . . affliction, I sought him out and we made up a language we could use to communicate. He is just as capable of any other man, only without the ability to hear.”

            “A beggar boy?” She made an incredulous sound in her throat. “Must have fed him since then.”

            Raheed chuckled, reaching out to clasp a hand around the back of Asan’s neck. “He’s done some growing up, haven’t you?”

            Asan smiled tentatively before Raheed dropped his hand. Then he stood and began to clear their plates, always eager to be busy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sketch of Fasa can be found [here](http://wandarox.tumblr.com/post/55662772445/lastly-fasa-i-think-at-some-point-she-spits-on).


	3. Camp

             The mountains took two months to climb, and then they were in Hahnar territory. Of course, few Hahnars drifted out this far, and if they did, they were Matij. Raheed felt he could handle the Matij, as they had no organized armies, only men hiding in shadows waiting for a good time to strike and then vanish. He ordered everyone to be on the alert. In two days, they’d be joining up with the rest of the army that marched on the southern front, which meant Raheed would soon have someone else to report to. He’d grown used to his absolute power; it would be hard to go back to following orders.

            He was almost glad to be in Hahnar territory. Maybe it would give him something to _do_ outside of eat, boss a few soldiers around, and then play chess with an equally bored Asan and Fasa. Luckily the two had reconciled their differences. Asan had even taught her a few signs to help communication, which Fasa was able to pick up quickly. In return, she helped him learn how to speak aloud, which was a much greater challenge. Raheed didn’t think Asan would ever be able to speak fluently, though it didn’t worry him much. Why did it matter? If Raheed could keep himself alive as long as possible, Asan wouldn’t be serving anyone else.

            “Have you seen his drawings?” Fasa asked Raheed as Asan left to retrieve water from the camels.

            “Hmm? Oh. Yes, of course I have.”

            “He’s very talented. He drew me. Look at this.” She gently extricated a piece of paper from beneath her pillow and showed it to Raheed. Indeed, there was a strong likeness. “Do I really look like this?”

            Raheed chuckled. He found it odd that he felt no inclination toward Fasa, even though she was the only woman he’d seen in months. In fact, he hadn’t so much as touched a woman since leaving Ayllamal eight months ago. He couldn’t fathom it, not after Malli. He still loved her like a fool, and he feared falling for someone just like her, which would surely kill him. Luckily, Fasa was not enticing to him. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but she had made no sign of wanting him, and there was little less attractive to Raheed than a woman who wasn’t interested. She didn’t talk much about her past, only that she’d been sold to a man in the last village as a third wife. Her mother was dead, the only thing that ever seemed to cause her any visible sorrow. She was hardened, understandable for the daughter of a slave who’d been sold as chattel to fuck a man she hated. Raheed was reminded again that no matter how much strife burdened his life, he’d probably never have it as badly as the women he’d met.

            “Your hair is bigger,” Raheed replied, taking a long chug from his canteen. The liquid burned his throat and warmed his gut.

            “Very funny.” Fasa inspected the drawing a few more moments before turning to him. “Do you ever stop drinking?”

            “When I sleep, maybe.”

            “Can I have some?”

            “Ladies shouldn’t drink.”

            “Come on, let me have some.”

            With a sigh, Raheed handed it over. She winced, then coughed, but she took several swallows anyway.

            “How much do you have to drink until you feel silly?”

            “About half.” He shook it, listening to it slosh against tin walls.

            “You drink more than that every night.”

            “I do, don’t I?”

            “Why do you drink so much?”

            Raheed shrugged. “To punish myself, perhaps.”

            “What a martyr.”

            Raheed lifted an eyebrow. “Where did you learn a word like that?”

            “I’m good with languages.” She turned back to the drawing she held. “Asan showed me a drawing he’d done of you. It was very good. Much better than mine.”

            “He sees me every day, all day. He’d better be good at drawing me.”

            “I also found his book on the Hahnars.”

            “Snooping?”

            “I’m confined to this tent. There isn’t anything I _haven’t_ seen in it by now. I just wanted to tell you that the book lies.”

            “About what?”

            “Everything. It describes Hahnars as if they’re savages.”           

            “Aren’t they?”

            Fasa sniffed with indignation. “Of course not. My mother was a highly sophisticated woman. The men beyond the mountain ruined her. They treated her like a dog.”

            “Do they drink the blood of camels?”

            “The Matij do. But only because they don’t kill their camels for food. It provides nutrients. It’s not nearly as barbaric as you Mullis make it seem.”

            Asan returned to the tent, stooped under the weight of the water he carried. He quickly dropped the buckets to the ground, then refilled the water pitcher and Fasa’s glass, which she thanked him for.

            “The Hahnars are very learned, just like Mullis. You won’t find better healers, and they have entire charts of the stars. They have enormous libraries because they teach _everyone_ to read, not just nobles and soldiers.”

            “They have slaves, don’t they?”

            Fasa stumbled to reply. “Well, _yes_ , but—”

            “And you, the daughter of a slave, thinks that’s alright?”

            “No! But—”

            “Mullis don’t keep slaves. It is outlawed. Your mother was enslaved before the Mullis arrived and she would have been free after our arrival.”

            Fasa snorted with derision. “Oh yes, of course. I was so _free_ after the Mullis arrived. Just like I am free now!”

            “I can toss you out into the desert if you like. Go ahead. Run back to the Hahnars you love so much. They’d do the same thing to you that my men would because according to _you_ , all men are the same.”

            Fasa scowled, then turned away, apparently lacking an answer. Raheed took another sip of his _arak_ in triumph. Then he stood, adjusted the sword at his waist, and stepped out into the camp, hoping to find some foot soldiers to order around for a bit.

 

* * *

 

            “Fasa,” Asan began as Raheed left the tent.

            “What is it?”

            Asan sat down beside her, pulling the Hahnar book from its small stack and tipping it open to the desired page. He pointed to the men he’d stared at so many times that they’d made an imprint in his memory.

            “What about them?” Fasa asked.

            “ _Jusefs_ ,” Asan said, hoping he said it right. _Are they real_? he asked.

            Fasa’s gaze moved from the drawing to Asan, then back again.

            “My mother might have mentioned them once or twice, but she always implied it was a . . . bestial quality to men that necessitated it.” Her eyes narrowed as they met Asan’s. “Why do you ask?”

            Asan sighed and closed the book. He didn’t want to believe Fasa, because she made it sound as if it were only a physical outlet, something to pass time or shave off excess lust. That wasn’t what Asan wanted it to be.  He wanted something _deeper_ than that, something spiritual. Something similar to how he felt for Raheed.

            The conversation could not continue, because the tent flap was thrown open, and not by Raheed. Asan tensed as Uthal’s shadow fell across both him and Fasa.

            “What a lazy servant you are, lying about with Raheed’s little whore. Get up. I need you to do something for me.”

            Asan scrambled to a stand, but not fast enough for Uthal, who grabbed the back of his tunic and hauled him to a stand.

            “Stop it!” Fasa snapped. “Leave him alone.”

            “You keep your mouth shut before I shut it for you.” Uthal let go of Asan so that he could bend down toward Fasa, reaching out and taking a fistful of her curls. She yelped in protest, but he held a finger to her lips. “You’re much prettier when you’re quiet.”

            Her face twitched with rage, but she did as asked, eyes flickering to Asan. At least Asan was able to teach her one thing, and that was how to keep her head down and accept abuse before it worsened.

            “Your days as Raheed’s little slave wife are going to end soon. It’s a shame; I’m sure a Hahnar girl like you enjoys getting stuffed with Mulli cock.”

            Asan flinched, waiting for Fasa to spit on him or even worse, slap him. But she only glared at him, her mouth firmly closed.

            “You’ll get plenty more when we join up with the rest. And as much as I hate you . . .” Uthal’s hand drifted lower, sliding under the neckline of her caftan and cupping her breast. She stiffened but didn’t fight it, “ . . . I’ll be the first in line to fuck you.”

            Asan couldn’t watch anymore. He darted for the tent entrance, hoping to find Raheed and bring Uthal to some justice. But Uthal was faster than Asan, grabbing him before he could reach the tent flap.

            “Where are you going?” Uthal asked.

            Asan said nothing, not only because Uthal wouldn’t understand him but also because he didn’t think Uthal worthy of an answer. Uthal frowned at Asan’s defiance, then pulled a dagger from his belt and held the tip just under Asan’s chin, forcing his head back.

            “You say one word to Raheed,” he said, face inches from Asan’s. Despite all his bravado, Asan was still several inches taller, “and I will kill you. I can make it look like an accident.” The dagger pressed closer, and Asan could feel the wet warmth of blood pooling on his skin. “Understand?”

            Asan couldn’t nod, so he said, “Yes, sir.”

            Uthal nudged the dagger, drawing a small cut along the underside of Asan’s chin. But then he pulled the dagger away, eyes still full of lethal promise.

            “Come with me,” he ordered. “I’ve got a job for you.”

            Sparing only one look at Fasa, Asan followed Uthal out of the tent. All he could do was hope that a Hahnar would kill Uthal in battle. It was one of the few of Asan’s wishes that might actually come true.

 

* * *

 

            Some of the men celebrated upon seeing the main camp, which stretched as far as some cities. Raheed couldn’t help but feel dread, as he knew General Mamid would not be here. He was fighting barbarians up in the north, where Raheed wished he was right now. At least it was a little cooler up there, a little greener. Instead he was suck to roast in the heat, fighting goddamn Hahnars.

            As his troop neared, a small collection of officers on horses rode to greet them. And Raheed realized that the dread in his gut was just the beginning. Now he began to feel _ill_ , because the man at the forefront of the group was none other than Lieutenant General Yussam.

            Raheed rather wanted a Hahnar to appear at this moment, if not to kill Yussam, then to kill Raheed. This was going to be _hell_.

            Instead of turning his horse around and galloping as quickly as he could in the opposite direction (Hahnars be damned), Raheed steeled himself for the inevitably awful things Yussam would say.

            _Swallow your pride_ , Raheed told himself as Yusaam pulled his horse to a halt. He’d never met the man in battle, but he looked as fearsome as his superior in full armor, riding upon a white horse with a mane so long it surpassed its chest. Ahmbra snorted, as if saying _show-off_.

            “Captain Raheed,” Yussam began with a slight sneer, and Raheed felt his teeth clench.

            “Hello, sir. I wasn’t aware it was you leading the efforts against the Hahnars.”

            “Considering General Mamid’s failures the first time, the empire thought it best to try my tactics instead.” He tilted his head, as if his attempt to be pleasant wasn’t entirely transparent. “I suppose this sorry lot is yours?”

            “Yes, sir.” Short answers were better than sarcastic ones, as much as Raheed wanted to employ the latter.

            Yussam’s eyes drifted back and forth before finally landing on Asan, who stood at Ahmbra’s hip.

            “I see you’ve brought your idiot servant with you.”

            “I’m allowed that, aren’t I, sir?”

            “If he’s an asset and not a burden.” Yussam’s eyes narrowed before moving to Lieutenant Uthal. “Who are you?”

            Uthal saluted. “Lieutenant Uthal, sir.”

            “You know who I am?”

            “Yes sir.”

            “Good. Let’s hope you’re better at keeping your mouth shut and your head down than your superior.” Lieutenant General Yussam turned his horse around and rode back to the camp, his officers following him. Raheed glared at his back.

            “Sir?” Uthal asked.

            “Asan.”

            Asan came forward.

            “Give me my canteen.”

            Asan did so.

            Raheed took a long swig, then pushed it against Uthal’s chest. The lieutenant took it tentatively.

            “Best get yourself drunk now, soldier,” Raheed muttered. “You’re going to need it.”

 

* * *

 

            “Well, if it isn’t _Raheed_. I’d recognize that sloppy turn-out anywhere.”

            Raheed twisted around, facing his addressor. He rode upon a dark bay horse, grinning slightly.

            “Kassar,” Raheed replied with a grin. “Should I get off my horse and embrace you?”

            “You need not expend the effort, but I’ll take whatever’s left in that canteen of yours.”

            Raheed tossed Kassar his canteen, which he caught effortlessly. Within seconds, he had removed the cap and brought the rim to his lips. Raheed backed Ahmbra up alongside Captain Kassar’s horse, taking back the canteen when Kassar handed it to him.

            “That’s very strong _arak_.”

            “I bought it from Jhedi, where apparently villagers like to drink _arak_ akin to horse piss.”

            Captain Kassar chuckled, watching foot soldiers mill about them. Raheed noticed Asan in the distance, standing outside the entrance to his private tent. At least Raheed didn’t have to share with anyone. He’d gotten very used to his privacy, though of course there wasn’t much privacy now with Fasa and Asan so close by.

            “So how much of a twat has Yussam been?” Raheed muttered, leaning close to Kassar so he could keep his voice low.

            “Oh, about the usual. Still enamored at the sound of his own voice, thinks everyone’s an ant to crush. I’ve been tempted to provoke an uprising, but of course I’m not an idiot.”

            “What can you expect from a Mulli-by-blood? I’ve got one of those for a lieutenant. He’s not as bad as Yussam, but he’s only nineteen. Give him a few years and I think he may live up to Yussam’s reputation.”

            Kassar spit into the dirt beside him. “Fuck Mulli-by-bloods. I wouldn’t save one from a rampaging Hahnar, that’s for sure.”

            “Have you seen any Hahnars yet?”

            “Not a single one. We’re close to a water source, which means the Matij have to be nearby. We found some animal droppings up that mountain.” Kassar motioned into the distance, where a tall jutting rock scratched the horizon.  “We’re cautious, but I can’t imagine a Matij being stupid enough to attack us here, not when we’re twenty thousand strong.”

            “Well, I wouldn’t put it past them. They attack in the night, and they know this territory more than any of us do.”

            Kassar reached down and grasped his sword, expression grim. “I don’t know about you, but I’ll be ready for them. No Hahnar’s going to kill me without making his own sacrifices.”

 

* * *

 

            “You wanted to speak to me, sir?”

            Lieutenant General Yussam looked up from the map spread before him. He stood, allowing Lieutenant Uthal the luxury of remaining upright, as it was inappropriate to be any taller than a superior, especially someone as superior as Yussam.

            “Lieutenant Uthal, is it?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You came in with Captain Raheed.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Would you like a drink?” Yussam jerked a finger at his servant, who rushed forward with a pitcher of what smelled like wine.

            “I—very well, sir.” Uthal was not much of a drinker, but he didn’t dare turn down an offer.

            Uthal was poured a glass of wine, as well as Yussam. Yussam held the glass high to salute Uthal, then took a sip. Uthal followed suit.

            “Your father was Major Yube, correct?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Is he still alive?”

            “Oh, yes, sir. Still alive and strong.”

            “Good, good. I believe your second cousin recently married my wife’s cousin’s sister-in-law. So we are vaguely related.”

            Uthal’s family was so large, it was hard to keep track. But he felt honored that he should have such a connection to one of the most powerful men in the Mulli Empire. Uthal still wasn’t sure what to think of the lieutenant general, considering Captain Raheed’s reaction. But so far he seemed perfectly pleasant.

            “I called you for a purpose, Uthal. Not because we are related, though that certainly helps. What I want to know is details about your trip from Ayllamal to here. Did anything go amiss?”

            “We did run into some rebellious villagers in Mufai, sir, but they were disposed of quickly and efficiently.”

            “Ah, yes. Another troop passed through there before you.”

            “That would explain why it was mostly abandoned, sir. There were only some angry peasants who remained. And—” Uthal cut himself off.

            “And what?”

            “Nothing, sir.”

            Lieutenant General Yussam’s eyes narrowed at Uthal, who had always been a poor liar.

            “You realize I am the lieutenant general, Uthal.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And lying to me is punishable by flogging.”

            Uthal swallowed the lump in his throat. He had nothing against Captain Raheed, save a few minor gripes probably every inferior officer had, so he didn’t think it would be right to tattle on him. But he also hated that Captain Raheed got to keep that Hahnar woman all to himself. It was fair to keep her from the foot soldiers—they were barbarians who didn’t deserve a woman of quality. But he was under the impression that officers shared among one another. It was incredibly selfish of Captain Raheed to hide her away in that tent. He knew that brothels were very few and far between. Uthal felt the fire of lust burning within him and he wanted to satiate it.

            “Has Captain Raheed done something inappropriate?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Uthal.”

            “There—there was a woman,” Uthal blurted nervously. “We took a woman hostage after we found her in the village that we raided. Raheed took her from the men and has kept her in his tent ever since.”

            Yussam’s eyes widened briefly before his usual composure settled back over his features.

            “He still has her then?”  
            “Yes, sir.”

            “Mulli does not allow any women amongst its camps. If men want whores, they have to go to brothels.”

            “I know, sir.”

            “And he has been taking her like a wife?”

            Uthal flushed slightly but answered, “I believe so, sir, though I have not seen it myself.” He frowned. “Raheed seems rather honorable, but that servant . . . well. Servants can’t be trusted. He may be using her for himself, as I’ve seen his jealousy in regards to her.”

            “Ah, yes.” Yussam’s eyes glittered with anger. “I am aware of this servant. Servants have a rather base nature, even more so than _bhanak_. That servant is especially violent and stupid. If Raheed is using the woman, I suppose that is his right as captain, but allowing his servant use of her is particularly vile. When you feed one rat, they all swarm upon you.”  
            “Yes, sir.”

            “Either way, she must be taken care of. A woman in the camp is the last thing we need.”

            Uthal paused, then asked, “Taken care of, sir?”

            Yussam stepped up beside Uthal, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You will see.”

            Then he swept by Uthal and exited the tent.

 

* * *

 

            Asan was trying to pick a knot out of Fasa’s hair, but she was not cooperating.

            “It _hurts_ , Asan! Are you being clumsy?”

            Asan scowled at her and signed, _stop whining_ , even if she did not understand it. With a sigh, Fasa surrendered to his care, occasionally wincing and swatting his hands away. Finally the knot came free, and Fasa was able to comb through the rest of her hair.

            “What a strong handsome man you are,” Fasa said as she turned around with a smirk. She reached out and pinched Asan’s bicep. “So impressive.”

            Asan pushed her hand away with a laugh. That made Fasa smile.

            “You have such a cute laugh. Did you know that? You snort more than you laugh, and it’s so quiet.”

            Asan shrugged. He’d never heard a laugh. He wasn’t sure what one was supposed to sound like.

            “You should teach me more of those signs of yours. Maybe that way we can speak normally, like you and Raheed do. Show me something that’s easily guessed.”

            Asan thought a moment, then lifted one hand, this thumb and forefinger making a ring. Then he thrust his other forefinger through it, back and forth. Fasa let out a scandalized squeal and pushed him.

            “You _dog_!” she giggled.

            Then Asan brought his hand to his face and began kissing it passionately. Fasa laughed harder.

            “These _are_ easy to guess! Is that an actual gesture or are you simply making jokes?”

            Asan shook his head.

            “What is _kiss_ then?”

            Asan pressed a hand to his lips and then pulled it back, as if blowing a kiss.

            “Oh. Well, that’s simple. How about a harder one? Love.”

            Asan crossed his hands over the center of his chest.

            “And fuck?”

            Asan snorted. Elder Hassad had insisted that no proper woman ever swore, but Fasa continued to defy him in that regard.

            “Do you have a gesture for it?”

            Asan once again made a circle with his forefinger and thumb, but this time he pushed his thumb through. Fasa’s eyes glittered with amusement.

            “Does Raheed know that’s the word?”

            _Raheed came up with it,_ Asan said. But then he nodded, because of course Fasa could not understand.

            “Are you blushing?” Fasa asked suddenly, and Asan immediately shook his head. But of course the implication that he was made him burn hotter.

            “Have you ever . . .?” Fasa made the gesture Asan had just taught her.

            Of course, that made his pink cheeks go red. But he shook his head.

            “Ever been kissed by a girl?”

            Asan was sure she hadn’t meant it in the way she had, but Asan couldn’t help but shake his head with a little smirk, feeling clever.

            “Well then.” With a wicked grin, Fasa leaned in took a handful of Asan’s caftan. “Shall I be the first for you?”

            Before Asan could protest, she pressed her mouth firmly against the corner of his. It wasn’t meant to be passionate, nothing more than what a friend might give a friend. Suddenly the tent flap was tossed open, and a man who was not Raheed strode in. It took Asan a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the day outside, but his stomach dropped when he realized exactly _who_ it was.

            “Isn’t this interesting,” said a rather gleeful-looking Lieutenant General Yussam. “How very _interesting_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is super fun and action-packed. ;)


	4. Run

****

            Raheed was headed for his tent when Corporal Waqas chased him down.

            “Captain Raheed!”

            Raheed turned. “What is it?”

            Waqas’s expression was drawn tight. “The lieutenant general asks for you to join him in his tent.”

            “Why?”

            “I think he knows about Fasa, sir.”

            Raheed’s eyes flew wide, and he quickly shoved past Corporal Waqas and headed in the direction of Yussam’s tent. Corporal Waqas fell in line behind him.

            “Who was it that asked you to retrieve me?” Raheed asked.

            “Lieutenant Uthal, sir.”

            “Uthal,” Raheed muttered. “That slimy cunt.”

            When Raheed arrived at Yussam’s tent, Uthal was nowhere to be seen, which was probably a good thing. Raheed was tempted to strangle him. He did find the lieutenant general seated on an embroidered mat, eating baklava and drinking tea while Fasa and Asan were tied up and seated beside one another across from him. Asan looked terrified, but Fasa was merely angry.

            “What is the meaning of this?” Raheed blurted, stalking across the tent to the lieutenant general. “You can’t just—”

            “I can do what I want, actually.” Yussam turned a venomous gaze to Raheed. “Have you forgotten your place, Captain?”

            Raheed struggled to rein in his fury, though he wasn’t sure if it would make any difference. Every time he remained as complacent as possible, Yussam showed him no more mercy than when he mouthed off.

            “Fasa is my prisoner and Asan is my servant. They belong in my tent.” Raheed twisted to peer into the corners of the tent. “Where is that lieutenant of mine?”

            With a sigh, Yussam placed his hands on his thighs and rose. “I’m sure you had your fun with your little whore, but we’re in Hahnar territory now, and we can’t have _any distractions._ If the other men find out what you’ve been hiding there’s no way you’ll be able to keep her. So. I have an ultimatum. Either you share her with the officers or you kill her.”

            Raheed fumbled to reply. “That’s—no. She’s doing no harm as she is—”

            “I will not have some Hahnar slut interrupting your focus. Have you forgotten that we’re at war? You’re going to kill hundreds of Hahnars, so what does it matter that you chop the head off of one pathetic bitch?”

            “She’s only half-Hahnar.” Raheed winced at the stupidity of the statement.

            Yussam scowled, then glanced back at his two prisoners. “Also, it is my duty to inform you that your servant is having his share of her as well.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Oh, so you didn’t know? How predictable.” Yusaam took two steps back and grabbed the back of Asan’s caftan, yanking him to a stand. Raheed noticed the bruise blooming across his cheekbone, which set his ire on fire. “Your _loyal servant_ is like every other filthy servant—a liar. _You_ may take what captives you like and you may fuck them as you like, but for a servant to do so is punishable by flogging.” A cruel smile stretched Yussam’s mouth. “I assume you will do him the honors?”

            “Asan hasn’t so much as touched her,” Raheed replied.

            “I beg to differ. They were in _quite_ the embrace when I walked in on them earlier this morning.”

            Raheed’s eyes slid over to Asan’s. Asan shook his head frantically, but Yussam tossed him down and kicked him in the ribs. Asan curled up and whined, unable to do much else consider that his wrists were bound and his ankles shackled.

            “You see? He lies again. I think you’ve put far too much trust in your servant, so perhaps it will do you both some good to attempt discipline.”

            Despite the seed of doubt, Raheed refused to believe Yussam. He could never take the word of the lieutenant general over the word of a man Raheed had known since he was a child. Asan wouldn’t lie. He _couldn’t_ lie.

            “What does she say?” Raheed pointed to Fasa.

            “She’s a liar too. My God, do you expect truth from a Hahnar woman?”

            “There are people I trust less than a Hahnar woman,” Raheed replied.

            Yussam frowned, then crossed his arms over his chest. “Tonight you’ll get rid of her. Or share her. I don’t care what you do, but she can’t remain in your tent. What is it you would like to do then?”

            Raheed couldn’t fathom letting the officers get their hands on Fasa, and considering what he knew of her, Fasa would rather die.

            “I will take care of her,” Raheed muttered.

            “Sir.”

            “ _Sir_.”

            “Good. And we will see your servant disciplined by tomorrow morning. Perhaps I’ll make the other officers’ servants watch, to keep them in line. Last thing we need in this camp is disobedience. After that, I hope you can keep yourself out of trouble, because I’m never above having a soldier flogged either.”

            “Can I take my servant back now, sir?”

            “No. He’s staying here until morning, where I can keep an eye on him.”

            “Sir—”

            “You may leave, captain.”

            “But—”

            “Men, get this man out of my tent.”

            Three soldiers stepped in from outside to take Raheed’s arms, but Raheed shrugged them off and marched out of the tent on his own, mind and heart racing. He’d killed plenty of men before, but a woman? Even worse, a woman he’d come to know better than most women in his life? Fasa had little regard for her own life, but Raheed couldn’t imagine himself being the man to take it from her.

            “Captain,” Corporal Waqas began, joining Raheed at his side.

            “Don’t talk to me right now,” Raheed snapped, and then marched away.

 

* * *

 

            A bag was thrust over Fasa’s head, and she was walked out to the edge of camp, where Raheed was waiting with his horse. The bag was only removed after she was forced to her knees at Raheed’s feet. Her gaze moved from his boots to his face, filled with enough hatred and betrayal to fuel a war. Raheed solemnly turned to Yussam’s men, who stood back and watched, expressions somber. Yussam was with them, draped in black as he watched the proceedings.

            “It’s a shame you did not share her,” Yussam said. “It would spare you this dirty deed.”

            Raheed stepped forward and used his dirk to cut through the gag in Fasa’s mouth. She immediately twisted her head and spat, “I’d rather die a million deaths than touch you, you filthy piece of shit.”

            Yussam only laughed, shaking his head with amusement. But there wasn’t humor in his eyes as he met Fasa’s gaze.

            “I liked you better gagged.”

            Fasa spit again, but all of the men were too far away for her to reach. She spun around and glared up at Raheed.

            “Are you going to kill me or stand around and let them talk to me like that?”  
            “Fasa—”

            “Fuck you too,” she snarled, but this time her eyes looked moist, her voice filled with disappointment. “I thought you were different.”

            “I’m sorry,” Raheed whispered, hoping that she could hear his regret.

            “Your apologies mean nothing. Kill me and get it over with.”

            “Can you provide me one last thing?” Raheed said loudly, hoping the other men heard.

            “No.”

            Raheed bent down over her and suddenly pressed a kiss to her mouth. She motioned to bite him, but he quickly put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Grab my horse and run as fast as you can. Ride east and you will find Khamal.”

            He ran a loving hand through her hair before pulling back, ignoring the hoots of the men who looked on. Fasa’s eyes had lost the hopelessness and regained the fire that had impressed him from the beginning. She did not nod, but her features hardened with conviction. The hand that wasn’t in her hair held his dirk, and he used the distraction of his affectionate touch to disguise the movement of his dagger. When it broke through the rope binding her wrists, she sprang into action before even he was ready for it.

            She shoved an elbow straight into Raheed’s nose, grabbing his dirk before he could retaliate. Yussam’s men were already headed for her, so she did not waste another moment. She sprinted toward Raheed’s horse, grabbing Ahmbra’s reins and then tossing herself across her back with agility she might not have had were her life not in danger.

            “Your horses!” Yussam shouted. “Get your horses!”

            The men grabbed whatever nearby horse was within their grasp and jumped on to pursue her. But unless Ahmbra tripped or failed, they would not reach her; she was already hidden behind a cloud of dust that she left in her wake.

             Focused on Yussam’s men running past him, Raheed didn’t even see Yussam coming. Even if he had, Raheed was too overwhelmed by the pain in his most likely broken nose to defend himself. Yussam struck him hard across the face with one hand, then switched hands and did it again. Raheed collapsed to the ground with a whine of pain.

            “You traitorous _piece of filth_ ,” Yussam snarled. “Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I would not notice you freeing her?”

            Raheed took the abuse because he knew fighting back would put him in an even worse situation. Luckily Yusaam seemed to run out of steam after the third or fourth kick, as he paused and took a deep breath, as if attempting to calm himself.

            “Get up,” he snapped.

            Raheed did so, but slowly because his ribs were feeling tender. In the distance, he could see Yussam’s men, galloping away. Ahmbra had rescued him many times, carrying him swiftly when escape was the only option. He prayed for her and Fasa now, hoping they found the speed to get away. Khamal was perhaps a week’s ride away, but at a good clip it might not take so long. Luckily he’d filled the water bags before Fasa’s now-failed execution.

            “I bet you’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you?” Yussam spat.

            “She wasn’t doing anyone any harm, sir. Seemed pointless to kill her.”

            “You were to kill her because I told you to _fucking kill her_. Do you ever recall me saying ‘please’ or ‘if you would, thank you’?”

            “No, sir.”

            “I haven’t a clue to why the general would promote a moron like you. We have differing opinions about the aptitude of _bhanak_ , but of course we would. I think they’re best foot soldiers because they clearly lack the intelligence to follow a simple order.”

            Raheed ran that through his head, wondering how it could make sense to anyone who wasn’t crazy. Intelligent people _didn’t_ just follow orders, because a monkey could follow an order. But he kept his mouth shut, because he knew he’d tested Yussam’s patience for today. He was lucky he wasn’t flogged on the spot for this infraction.

            “Come with me then,” Yussam muttered, marching back to the camp.

            “Sir, your men . . .”

            “She’s too far gone now. They’ll come back.”

            Raheed ducked his head and followed, trying not to smile with triumph. He had promised himself he’d never harm a woman, especially after the debacle with Malli. It was one of the few tenets he stood by.

            Yussam yelled out to a group of men standing nearby, waving them over. Kassar was one, and he threw a smile at Raheed, oblivious to what had just transpired.

            “Sir,” Kassar began, “the watch has spotted a sand storm on the horizon.”

            “How far away?”

            “Could be an hour before it reaches us, sir.”

            “Plenty of time then.” Yussam glanced over his shoulder at Raheed, then back at the men. “Can I ask something of you . . .who are you again?”

            “Kassar, sir. Captain Kassar.”

            “Ah yes. Captain Kassar.” Yussam’s smile was about as fake as his tone. “I suppose you were promoted to captain for a reason.” Yussam jerked his head toward Raheed. “Arrest him.”

            “Sir?”

            “Now, preferably.”

            Kassar looked over at Raheed, who gaped back at him. The moment Raheed took a step backward, Kassar’s men had already fallen upon him, shoving him to the dirt and twisting his arms behind his back. Raheed let out a shout of protest, wriggling in an attempt to free himself. But with at least five men on top of him, there was no hope of escape. When Raheed turned his head, he saw Kassar standing nearby, still shocked and hesitant.

            “Kassar, call them off!” Raheed pleaded.

            “Shut up, Captain,” Yussam replied. “You can make orders when you’re general. Boys, drag him to the center of camp. Captain Kassar, you’ll be coming with me to my tent.”

            Kassar’s eyes darted from Raheed to Yussam, visibly swallowing. “But sir—”

            “Did I _ask_ , Kassar?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Then come.”

            Kassar mouthed _sorry_ to a struggling Raheed before trotting after Yussam. Raheed glared at his back, muttering _some friend_ under his breath. With a loud _oof_ , Raheed was pulled to a stand and shoved forward, his hands bound with rope. He tested the quality of the knots and found them impossible to loosen. Just perfect. Maybe he was due for a flogging after all, considering the center of camp was where these things were done. Raheed didn’t look forward to it, but he could handle a whipping. He hadn’t had one in a very long time, but he’d survived the few he’d had as a boy. They whipped you ten or twenty times, made you cry, then shoved you in a tent to think about what you’d done. Raheed thought it was worth Fasa’s life.

            Of course, soldiers hauling a bloody, bound captain through camp certainly drew attention, and by the time they’d reached the center, there was a huge mob of curious soldiers standing around the edge, waiting for something to happen. Raheed was taken to the post that stood in the center, something hastily erected in case they should need it. When Raheed was pressed against it, he found it wobbly. He hoped it wouldn’t fall on him.

            Raheed stood there and waited for Yussam’s reappearance, having trouble breathing through his broken nose. He could feel the warm ooze of blood dribbling across his lips and down his chin.

            “Can I have some sort of rag to clean my face?” Raheed asked, and was met with silence.

            “Well, never mind then.” Raheed rolled his eyes, spitting out some of the blood that had leaked between his lips.

            Finally Yussam appeared, Kassar in tow. But when Raheed saw whom Kassar had brought with him, Raheed’s heart leapt. He’d assumed he’d been brought here for his own flogging; he hadn’t even _thought_ about Asan. They had blindfolded him, which seemed crueler than anything else, as Asan was helpless without sight. Raheed tested his bonds once more, an act of wishful thinking. One of Kassar’s men thumped him on the shoulder as reprimand.

            “What are you doing?” Raheed demanded as Yussam stepped within hearing distance. “Leave Asan out of this. He hasn’t done anything.”

            “I beg to differ. Men, take Raheed over there and sit him down. He needs a front-row seat.”

            As they led Raheed away, Raheed was overwhelmed by panic. He twisted in time to see them shove Asan onto his knees and tied his arms behind him and around the post. Asan was struggling, but there was already another bruise along his jawline that suggested a previous conflict.

            “Sir!” Raheed called out, fighting his captors and losing again. “Sir, just whip me, for _God’s sake_. This isn’t Asan’s fault!”

            “If you don’t shut up, Raheed, I’m going to gag you.” Yussam walked over as Kassar’s men pushed him to the ground, facing Asan now. “I don’t tolerate insubordination in this camp. Maybe in Ayllamal I’d simply flog you, but we’re at war, and that means I require _perfect behavior_. I know that beating you won’t teach you shit; you _bhanaks_ are used to violence, used to pain. So I’ve decided upon another method.” Yussam bent down across from Raheed, eye’s glittering with wicked purpose. “You saved one life. That means I get to take one in return.”

            Raheed’s eyes widened in shock and horror, and he once again attempted to free himself. He knew there was no hope of escaping, but logic and emotions were not running on the same track at the moment.

            “I hope that whore was worth your servant’s life, Raheed.”

            “Don’t!” Raheed begged. “Please, don’t. He hasn’t done anything. If you want to kill someone, just kill me.”

            “While that is a tempting offer, you’re _useful_ to me. You are a weapon I can use against the Hahnars, one I won’t waste. But this servant . . . he has no use.”

            “Of course he does, he’s a servant! He can do all sorts of—”

            “He can’t talk, can’t hear. I can take Hahnar slaves and they’ll do me more good.”

            “Please,” Raheed continued, desperate. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t—just don’t hurt him.”

            Yussam looked repentant for a moment before clucking his tongue and shaking his head.

            “I fear it’s already too late for him, Raheed. You made your choice. Now he’ll suffer the consequences.”

            Yussam stood and turned. Frantically, Raheed began to look for a way out, _any_ way out. His eyes fell back on Asan, who was seated quietly by the post, completely oblivious to what would unfold.

            A camel was led into the ring by one of Yussam’s servants, dragging a skid behind it. On the skid sat a small pile of jagged rocks, perhaps gathered as all of this drama had escalated. Raheed gaped at it, hysteria nearly blocking his throat. No. He’d thought—he’d thought that they’d behead Asan, perhaps slit his throat. They couldn’t—they _wouldn’t_ —

            “Lieutenant Uthal,” Yussam called, and Raheed’s lieutenant strode from the growing crowd of soldiers who had come to watch.

            “Uthal!” Raheed barked. “Uthal, you fucking _twit_ , don’t you—”

            “Men,” Yussam interrupted. “Gag him.”  
            Raheed bit the hand of the first man that reached toward him, but he couldn’t gnaw on the three or four that shoved rags into his mouth.

            Uthal didn’t look quite as confident as his superior, eyes darting to Raheed nervously before falling back on the lieutenant general. As the camel walked up beside him, Yussam bent down and took a rock from the top of the pile, tossing it up into the air several times before holding it out to Uthal.

            “Aim well,” Yussam said. He whipped around to Captain Kassar, who had gone pale at Asan’s side. “Kassar, take off his blindfold and then get out of the way.”

            Kassar nodded dumbly and removed Asan’s blindfold. Then he darted back into the ring of onlookers, and Raheed decided that Kassar would be the first man he’d kill once he got the chance. Okay, the second. Yussam would always top the list.

            Yussam stood back, waiting for Uthal to act. Uthal looked down at the rock in his hand, then over his shoulder at Raheed. Raheed glared back at him, which seemed to steel his determination. Taking a deep breath, Uthal wound his arm back and threw the rock.

            It didn’t hit Asan. In fact, it thumped about a stride away, rolling away uselessly.

            “Idiot,” Yussam snarled before shoving Uthal back. He reached down to snatch another rock and then threw it himself. This time, it landed with a sick _thud_ , striking Asan so forcefully across the forehead that Asan’s head snapped back, like an arrow had shot him. As if in slow motion, Asan swung forward again, blood instantly pooling at the point of impact. Then, as if he were only just feeling it, Asan screamed in pain.

            There was something eerie about the scream of a man who had never heard a scream. It was long and high-pitched, like the cry of a child torn from its mother. It was a scream of a man who hadn’t screamed before, and Raheed would have died a million deaths before he was forced to listen to that again. Tears sprung to his eyes as a sob formed in his throat. He wanted to cry out Asan’s name, but he knew Asan wouldn’t hear it.

            Slowly, Asan straightened, eyes fluttering as blood dripped along his brow and into his eyelashes.

            Yussam turned to the men around him. “Alright. Grab a stone and start throwing.”

            One burly foot soldier came forward and took a rock, smirking. Then he hurled it, striking Asan’s shoulder. Asan let out another wail, though this one was more muffled, less surprised. Just as another man came forward, there was a cry of the watch’s horn.

            “What the . . .”

            Somewhere in the distance, men were shouting. Raheed looked up and saw that the sandstorm had grown, filling half the sky by now. And as the shouts neared, Raheed realized what they were shouting.

            _Hahnars_.

            “They’re using the sandstorm as cover!” someone cried.

            Moments later, they heard the beat of hooves, the scream of a dying man. Everyone scrambled for their swords, and within seconds, everything was chaos. But Raheed didn’t even care. In fact, he lifted his head to the sky and whispered, “ _Thank you God_ ” under his breath before he felt hands on his back. He whipped around to snarl, but he stopped upon seeing who it was.

            Corporal Waqas made short work of the ropes tying Raheed’s wrists, as Kassar’s men had already fled to arm themselves.

            “Thank you,” Raheed said softly, and Corporal Waqas nodded, handing Raheed his dagger. Raheed had forgotten that they’d disarmed him after tying him up, leaving Raheed completely vulnerable to attack.

            “It’s not much, but—”

            “It’s fine,” Raheed said before jumping to his feet. A second later, the first Hahnar galloped into the clearing. They must have gotten a hold of some horses since the last time Raheed had seen them. He’d thought they preferred camels, but perhaps they saw the benefits of running through a camp at high speeds.

            Raheed nodded at Corporal Waqas before the man ran away to join the other men. Then Raheed quickly covered the distance between himself and Asan, who looked dazed and confused by the sudden activity around them. Raheed had to duck and roll when a horse nearly collided with him, ridden by a sword-swinging Hahnar. Luckily the Hahnar seemed to be worried about someone else, allowing Raheed to crawl the rest of the distance to Asan. He made short work of the ropes keeping Asan to the post.

            “Asan,” Raheed said firmly, patting Asan’s cheek. Asan’s eyes fluttered but eventually were able to focus on Raheed.

            “Raheed . . .?” he whispered.

            “Come. We have to go.”

            Asan moaned as Raheed pulled him to a stand, but his hands held firmly to Raheed’s cloak. When Raheed attempted to go one direction, Asan pulled him in another.

            “Nutmeg,” Asan said.

            “Yes, where is she?”

            Asan pointed to the camel pulling the skid of rocks. Raheed hadn’t recognized her, as he’d been far more focused on the load that she pulled. But indeed it was her, looking relatively bored as horses and men swarmed around her. It was a cruel act indeed to have Asan’s camel pull the rocks that would kill him. Raheed cursed Yussam once more before hauling Asan forward, heading straight for Nutmeg. Luckily she was still saddled, though she wore none of her usual packs.

            “Raheed!”

            Raheed turned too late, and a Hahnar was practically upon them. Raheed threw Asan aside in an attempt to protect him, then grabbed for his sword. But he didn’t have his sword. It had been taken from him.

            Raheed remembered this too late, and the Hahnar swung his sword in an arc, cutting through Raheed’s belt and slashing the skin beneath. Raheed collapsed and the Hahnar was off again, shouting at his comrades, pointing to the sky. The cloud of swirling sand was nearly upon them now.

            Asan wobbled over to Raheed, pulling at his shoulders so that he could see the damage. Raheed pulled his hand from his abdomen, finding it covered in blood.

            “We don’t have time,” Raheed gasped. “Get Nutmeg. Now.”

            Asan stared at him for a second, looking lost and horrified.

            “NOW ASAN!” Raheed snarled.

            Asan jolted, not from Raheed’s volume but perhaps from his expression. He stumbled toward Nutmeg, his balance still affected by the strike to his forehead. Raheed watched as Asan unbuckled the pulling harness and grabbed her lead rope to bring her over. Raheed forced himself to stand when he saw Asan stumble and fall, moments before Asan turned and vomited.

            Raheed grabbed the rope from Asan and jerked at Nutmeg’s head. “Cush! Cush!”

            With a groan, Nutmeg dropped to her knees. Raheed took Asan around the waist and hauled him up on top of her. He heard a bark in the distance, so he turned and brought his fingers to his lips to whistle. Moments later, Messenger bounded from underneath the flap of a nearby tent, showing no hesitation before leaping up onto Nutmeg in front of Asan. He must have been hiding the whole time, as many of the soldiers kicked him when he was in the way. He’d learned to remain near Asan but always out of sight. Raheed wondered if Asan had any other loyal creatures nearby.

            After wrapping the fabric of his turban around Nutmeg’s eyes, Raheed swung himself onto the saddle behind Asan, running purely on the thrill of battle now. Taking Nutmeg’s lead, he slapped it against her neck.

            “Cush!”

            Nutmeg pushed herself to a stand, and Raheed kicked her into an ambling trot through the camp. It was a huge camp, so he didn’t know how much more time they had before the swirling storm arrived. It certainly complicated things. He’d hoped that by protecting Nutmeg’s eyes, they could continue even when swallowed and pelted by sand. It was their best chance of escape, because if they stopped at any point, they’d be found and most definitely executed for attempting to run. But they couldn’t stay. Not when Asan’s life was at risk.

            Raheed quickly took note of which direction was east before urging Nutmeg into an even faster pace. Her lope was slow and uneven, but she was much bigger than a horse, so her strides carried them far. Raheed wished for Ahmbra, but he knew that even she could not carry all three of them like Nutmeg could, at least not long distances.

            Finally they reached the edge of the camp, opposite of the direction that the Hahnars had attacked. It was strangely abandoned, probably because everyone was on the other side fighting. Raheed unpinned his cloak and threw it over his head, using it to cover Asan and Messenger as well. Just as he did so, the edge of the storm caught up, and a dark orange abyss devoured them. 


	5. Eastward

** **

            Asan drifted for a bit before a hand squeezed his arm. He forced his heavy eyelids apart, searching for the source. For a second he panicked, as he was completely encased in a thick, dark fabric, unable to see anything. Had they been captured? Was he blindfolded again? He let out a long whimper of terror before the hand squeezed him again, much too gentle to be any soldier jerking him around. Asan twisted, wincing at the pain it caused him. His hands searched behind him and found Messenger’s warm fur. The dog licked him, and Asan calmed. He could only remember bits and pieces about what had happened since that first rock hit his head, but he recognized the scent of Raheed’s cloak and the movements of a camel, so even if they weren’t safe, they were together.

            Exhaustion began to creep up on him again. Asan leaned backward, mindful of where Messenger sat. He rested his head on Raheed’s shoulder, reaching out to find his hand and squeeze it. Raheed squeezed back, so Asan let himself fall back asleep, lulled by the swaying movement of Nutmeg beneath him.

 

* * *

 

            When Asan woke again, it had grown dark. The cloak had been thrown off, and the skies were clear. However, they were all covered by a thick coat of sand, some of which made Asan sneeze. Sneezing hurt his already pounding head, so he wiped off as much as he could before twisting around to see how Raheed was faring.

            Luckily there was a moon to see by, because Raheed’s face had gone eerily pale and slack, which sent Asan into a panic. He grabbed the lead from Raheed’s clenched fist and jerked Nutmeg to a stop.

            “No,” Raheed muttered. “We have to keep going.”

            _You’re hurt,_ Asan signed frantically. He couldn’t remember the details of how it had happened, but there had been a Hahnar involved. Asan pushed back Raheed’s cloak and found the white robes beneath stained with blood.

            _I have to wrap this._

“We have to keep moving.”

            _It will take ten minutes._

“No . . .”

            Asan snapped the lead and asked Nutmeg to cush. She stopped and dropped to her knees, allowing Asan to dismount. He pulled the fabric from around her eyes and shook out the sand that had stuck to it. He gave her a _thank you_ pat, as they couldn’t have gotten out if not for her. Messenger had already jumped to the ground and started sniffing, though Asan wasn’t sure what he’d find out here.

            Asan tried cleaning the turban fabric as well as possible before first using it to wipe Raheed’s bloody upper lip, then wrapping it tightly around Raheed’s middle. There was really nothing else available to them save the clothes they already wore. Asan wanted to do more, but he didn’t want to make it worse.

            “Do we have any water?” Raheed asked.

            Asan reached into the saddle pouch and withdrew a filled canteen. It wasn’t much, but it might last them a day or so. With a chuckle, Raheed reached under his caftan and pulled out his canteen of _arak_.

            “Good thing I’m a drunk,” Raheed said before pulling the cap off and taking a swig. Asan grabbed it from him.

            “Hey!”

            Asan untied the turban fabric from around Raheed’s waist and dampened it with the _arak_.

            “What are you doing?”

            _Elder Hassad taught me this_ , Asan replied.

“To douse wounds with _arak_?”

            Asan shruggd. _He didn’t say why it worked. Only that it helped._

When Asan replaced the turban fabric, Raheed let out a low, pained hiss as it made brief contact with his inflamed skin. When Asan finished, Raheed grabbed the canteen back from him and took another sip, looking indignant at having it stolen.

            “How is your head?” Raheed asked.

            _I am very tired. And it hurts_.

            “Don’t sleep too much. I get worried.” Raheed reached up and touched the bloody mark on Asan’s forehead. “We’ll have matching scars, I guess.”

            Asan smiled sadly before taking Raheed’s hand and pressing his lips to his knuckles. It was an odd gesture, one he didn’t even think about before he executed. But Raheed didn’t think anything of it. He pulled Asan in for a strong embrace, or as strong as Raheed could manage as injured as he was.

            Raheed pulled back and patted Asan’s hair affectionately. “Asan, I—I almost saw you . . . it would have been all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

            Asan just nodded. He didn’t have room for anger when they were running for their lives. Asan didn’t know _why_ he was tied up to be stoned, but he assumed it was for something Raheed did, probably involving Fasa, as Asan couldn’t imagine why they would leave without her if she weren’t already dead or gone. Asan knew the true evil was Yussam, which was nothing surprising.

            _We have to keep moving_ , Asan said.

            “Yes. We do. Slide on. Messenger, we’re going!”

            Gathering up the dog and Nutmeg’s lead line, Asan kicked her into a stand. Then they continued into the vast, empty desert, counting on the stars to point them east. Asan didn’t know what was east, but Raheed seemed rather insistent they head in that direction. Asan trusted Raheed’s judgment and didn’t ask.

           

* * *

 

            The next day was hotter than any day previous, or at least it felt like it. Raheed’s throat was dry and swollen, and the one sip of water he was allowed did nothing but make his thirst worse. He had to drape his cloak over his head to keep from roasting in the sun, though he didn’t know why he bothered. Every part of him ached, and it was hard to stay awake. As they traveled, Asan twisted in the saddle and took a look at the make-shift bandage. His wince was enough to tell Raheed that it didn’t look good. Asan tore a strip off of Raheed’s cloak, using it to wipe off the new blood that had leaked out since last night. At least Asan seemed to be doing better, no longer suffering from dizzy spells or crippling headaches. A huge bruise had blossomed along his temple and his shoulder, as well as some red swelling. When Raheed asked Asan how he was feeling, Asan shrugged it off and said he would be fine. Raheed didn’t know if Asan was _actually_ fine or if he was only trying to make it sound so. Either way, he had to be doing better than Raheed, who searched for his usual reserves of strength and found them utterly depleted. 

            “Fasa,” Asan asked him once. “Is Fasa okay?”

            “She ran. She took Ahmbra and ran. I told her to come the same way we are traveling now, toward water and food.”

            Asan nodded, accepting this answer with surprising tranquility. They both knew that Fasa was safer in the desert than she was back with the camp, scorpions and all.

            Raheed wasn’t much of an optimist, so he knew how grim their situation was. They had water that would be gone within a day or so. They had no food. There were soldiers most likely looking for them. Both of them were injured, Raheed mortally so. The only thing in their favor was Nutmeg, who carried them more swiftly than they could move walking. If Raheed were alone, he probably would have stopped and let the Mulli army find him, because he’d rather be beheaded than die of thirst. But Asan was with him, and after seeing Asan on the brink of doom, Raheed was determined to see him live. Without Asan, he wouldn’t have even made it this far.

            Night finally came, bringing relief from the sun. Of course, underneath every smooth stone waited a rattlesnake. The starry sky offered no warmth, and the cold rendered him even more miserable than the heat. They only had Raheed’s cloak to keep warm, and split between them, it wasn’t much.

            Just as Raheed felt his teeth chatter inside of his head, Asan twisted, pulling his legs up and around so that they were facing one another. He handed Raheed the lead rope, then wrapped his arms around Raheed’s torso delicately, making sure not to press up against Raheed’s wound. Packed together like so, the cloak was more easily shared and Asan’s heat helped stave off the night’s chill. Glad to have a place to rest his heavy head, Raheed pressed his cheek to Asan’s hair and dozed, occasionally waking himself to make sure they were heading in the right direction.

 

* * *

 

            On the third day, Asan stopped Nutmeg so they could dismount and stretch their legs before continuing. Also, Nutmeg needed some rest, as she hadn’t slept since they’d taken off. She immediately began to doze as Raheed and Asan shared precious water with Messenger. He’d grown lethargic with hunger and thirst, curling in Asan’s arms as if he were a docile puppy again. Asan held him close, praying that Messenger be given the strength to continue with them. Asan had already lost so much. He couldn’t bear to part from one of his only friends.

            Raheed sat in the sand and rested against Nutmeg. His face was burned and peeling, and his condition had only worsened with time. He wasn’t bleeding anymore, but Asan felt a fire in his forehead and cheeks that did not allay Asan’s worst fears. The wound would have been severe but not life-threatening had he access to proper care, but they had nothing, and he was beyond Asan’s expertise now. Asan could only watch in agony as Raheed slowly faded, losing more color and life each day that passed. If Asan were honest with himself, he was surprised that Raheed had even made it this far.

            _Where are we going_? Asan asked, sitting at Raheed’s side. _You haven’t said_.

            “Somewhere with water,” Raheed replied, though it was hard to understand. He’d been mumbling everything lately, making his lips hard to read.

            _But where_?

            Raheed smiled, though it was weak and somewhat dull, as if his mind were elsewhere. “A place I’ve been before.”

            _Water will help, but we need food and shelter._

“There is all of that there.” Raheed took Asan’s hand and squeezed it. “You will be safe, trust me.”

            Asan stared at Raheed a moment, wondering if he should press the matter further. Was Raheed delusional yet? Was he so far gone?

            _I do trust you_ , Asan replied. _With my life, I trust you_.

            “Oh, Asan.” Raheed’s head dropped back to Nutmeg’s flank, but his eyes rolled to their corners, focusing on Asan. “Don’t put your faith in me. I am . . .” Raheed’s eyes drifted to the sky. “I am a fool.”

            Asan dropped his head to Raheed’s shoulder, pressing aginst him with the absurd hope that his strength could somehow transfer, that he could take on some of Raheed’s weakness so that Raheed could endure. Asan didn’t have much strength to give, but he’d give as much as Raheed needed.

            Raheed lifted his hands and said, _If we see a Hahnar, I will kill him and eat him_.

            Asan chuckled and dug his face further into Raheed’s shoulder. Threading his arms through one of Raheed’s, he replied, _They might not taste very good. Too tough_.

            “Aha!” Raheed’s body shook with his abrupt laugh, which instantly died. He did not respond, and when Asan pulled back to look at him, he saw that Raheed was already drifting back into an uneasy sleep, which was common for him. Once he was sure Raheed was slumbering, Asan pressed a soft yet worried kiss to Raheed’s temple. Then he wrapped his arms around Raheed’s chest and held back tears. There wasn’t much sand in the hourglass left for his soldier.

 

* * *

 

            By day four, Raheed was hallucinating. He seemed to think Asan was Malli, which meant lots of sobbing and apologizing for how he’d done her wrong. Asan might have protested louder had Raheed not wrapped his arms around Asan and pressed his face into Asan’s neck. Asan didn’t know what else to do other than pet his hair and wipe the tears that left streaks in the dirt on Raheed’s face. Once the hallucinations were over, Asan wished for them back, because Raheed grew lifeless, unable to make sentences longer than a few words. His entire weight rested against Asan’s back for the later half of the day, which prompted some tears of Asan’s own. It was going to be Elder Hassad all over again, except that Asan _loved_ Raheed. He couldn’t see him die. He didn’t have the strength. He resorted to praying, because it was the only resource he had.

            Of course, Asan wasn’t going to last much longer either. His caftan was already loose, and he felt irritable when he wasn’t extremely emotional. The sun burned him and the moon chilled him, and it all seemed so hopeless that Asan was prepared to stop and just lie down to die. But Raheed kept saying, _further_ , so Asan kept riding, clutching a very weak Messenger to his chest in hopes that a miracle might happen.

            And then by the end of the fifth day, in the distance, Asan saw a rock formation jutting into the sky. Raheed pointed, said something like _go._

Asan went.

            The desert abruptly ended where the steep mountain began, and along its sides were deep, narrow fissures, splitting the rock like wrinkles in an old man’s skin. Asan stepped into one, feeling along the wall to guide his way. His hand slipped in moss and moisture, and Asan let out a cry of delight.

            _Water_.

            Asan quickly dragged Raheed into the cave, pulling off Nutmeg’s saddle and using her blanket as a mat for Raheed to lie upon. He let Nutmeg rest just at the entrance and commanded Messenger to stay. Asan took Raheed’s dagger, wondering if he could catch some small animal, though he didn’t have high expectations. He’d never hunted anything in his life, and the only things living in a harsh environment like this were scorpions and snakes, neither of which he wanted anywhere near.

            Asan left the cave and began to climb. His body protested every movement, and his vision swam, but he was given strength and determination by the site of plants, the first shrubs he’d seen since leaving the last mountains behind. He pulled one out of the mountain by the roots, but the roots looked about as edible as the rocks he’d yanked them from, so he tossed the plant down and continued.

            Finally he came upon a small trickle leaking from the mountain, which he dove upon with relish and immediately captured with cupped hands. The water was unusually warm, but it was something to wet his throat. He was so delirious with the pleasure from it that he nearly forgotten why he’d climbed up here. He grabbed the canteen at his waist and began to fill it, feeling renewed by hope. Maybe they could live through this.

            God was great indeed.

 

* * *

 

            When Raheed woke, it was dark and humid. He was lying on his back in a place unfamiliar to him. Messenger sat at his side, whining and nudging Raheed’s hand with his nose. Nutmeg stood just outside, her twitching tail betraying her presence. Raheed closed his eyes, wishing to sleep again. But just as his vision swam, he saw a flash of red, a glitter of gold. When he forced his eyes open, he saw her, practically glowing as she knelt by his side. Malli reached out a cool hand and placed it on his forehead, large black eyes filled with sympathy and motherly concern.

            “Malli?” he whispered, reaching for her. But he couldn’t move his hand, couldn’t move anything at all. His chest rose with breath, but that was all he could manage, a prisoner in his own body.

            “Oh, Raheed,” she said gently, her red lips smiling. “You are sick.”

            “Don’t go,” Raheed begged, feeling tears rise in his eyes. “I love you, more than anything. Do you love me? Do you?”  
            She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Go to sleep, darling. We have to leave in the morning. It is a long journey, across the sea.”

            “Oh, Malli,” Raheed sobbed. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”

            But she was gone in an instant, and a shadow approaching him replaced her. He wanted to die, so he opened his mouth to tell Asan such. But the figure was much too tall to be Asan, and that was then his sluggish mind realized it wasn’t Asan at all.

            Hands grabbed him. Raheed didn’t fight, only whined in pain as they stressed the wound on his abdomen. He was dragged along the cave floor until he was dumped outside, shaded from the sun by the shadow of the mountain. Around him stood at least six Hahnars on horses, all carrying swords, all looking less-than-pleased to see him.

            But Raheed smiled and tilted his head up so that he could see the sky. They would kill him, and he’d rather they do it than Yussam and the rest of those bastards. At least with them it wasn’t personal. At least with them, they wouldn’t taunt him and use Asan’s life as a weapon to hurt him.

            One of the men dismounted from his dark horse, dressed in white save his long red cloak and yellow turban. The pale colors of his clothing contrasted to the darkness of his face and hands. But it was his complexion that made his eyes immediately noticeable, the way they held no compassion, no connection. Raheed was just a Mulli soldier to these men, a man to behead and nothing more.

            Raheed didn’t even recognize the man until he came closer, when Raheed could see his full beard, the smirk that flashed across his lips. He was older now, but it was hard to forget the man that had let Raheed live so many years ago.

            “Dasaf,” Raheed whispered, almost in relief. Dasaf had promised him. He had _promised_.

            Dasaf stood over him, blocking the sunlight. The sword at his waist glittered. Raheed waited for him to withdraw it, wished for the end it would bring to his pain.

            “Mulli,” Dasaf replied. “You have returned, but in much worse shape than before.”

            “Please,” Raheed forced out past chapped, scarred lips.

            “What was that?” Dasaf placed a foot on either side of Raheed’s waist and bent down, holding a hand to his ear. “What did you say?”

            “Please.” Tears gathered in the corners of Raheed’s eyes, and he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t beg for his own death, because it still terrified him. But he knew it would happen, and he wanted it swift. Maybe if there was a heaven, he could wait for Malli there. Maybe that was the only place she’d love him.

            “Oh, Mulli.” Dasaf straightened, looking more sad than resentful. “You have come so far so that I should end you. I hate to pay a kindness to Mullis, but . . . I cannot see a man suffer. And Hahnars _always_ keep their promises.” With a sigh, Dasaf withdrew his blade, a scimitar edged with the glowing reflection of the sun.

            Raheed closed his eyes and waited. 


	6. Leyla

 

            Asan was making his way back down the mountain when he saw them.

            Hahnars.

            He didn’t think. If he had, he might have hesitated. But as he scrambled down the rocks that had been such obstacles before, he noticed it was worse than he’d thought. Raheed was with them, lying on the ground, motionless. Had they already . . .? Asan’s heart leapt at the thought and he flew down the mountain, dropping his canteen along the way. Then he saw the sword the Hahnar drew, and he let out a cry, knowing it was the only thing that might stop them.

            All the Hahnars looked up, including the one standing over Raheed. Asan barreled towards them, feeling his muscles burn as his legs pumped, the dagger slick with the sweat from his clenched fist. Before the Hahnars could assess the situation properly, Asan was upon the Hahnar standing over Raheed, hitting him so hard that they both went down, landing in a cloud of dust.

            Asan attempted to slash the man’s throat, but the man was much bigger up close than he was from several strides away, and stronger too. He thrust an elbow up and struck Asan across the side of the head, a hit powerful enough to make Asan’s vision leap. Asan dropped the dagger, and within seconds of their struggle, the Hahnar was seated on top of him, his scimitar blade resting against Asan’s throat. If that was not enough, all of the other Hahnars had dismounted and were standing over them, swords drawn as well.

            Asan did what Fasa had taught him. He spit. But he hadn’t much spit lately, so it didn’t even fly. It just stuck to his bottom lip and dribbled down his chin. The Hahnar reacted in a way that Asan didn’t expect.

            He laughed.

            The Hahnar sat up, his knees on either side of Asan’s hips. He kept the blade pointed at Asan’s throat to keep him from moving.

            “You are not a soldier,” the Hahnar said, and Asan was shocked that he spoke Aillic. “I thought you might be because of your beard, but you cannot spit at me, let alone fight.”

            Beard? Asan hadn’t even realized that during their trip, he hadn’t been able to shave. It wasn’t much of a beard, but it was certainly enough to make a Hahnar pause.

            “And you come at me with a little dagger?” The Hahnar turned and jerked his chin at the dagger that had fallen behind him. He said something in Hahnar to one of the men behind him, and a man ran to pick up the weapon from the dirt. “You are either a stupid servant or a very brave one.”

            Asan normally would have surrendered more easily, but in this Hahnar he saw all that had gone wrong: Elder Hassad’s death, Yussam’s cruelty, the Hahnar who had sliced Raheed open before their escape. He knew that he was the only thing that stood between Raheed and death, so self-preservation sank to the bottom of his priorities. When a few Hahnars came forward to grab him, Asan bit and kicked and wriggled with all of the strength he still had, which wasn’t enough to free himself. The Hahnar on top of him stood, watching Asan curiously as Asan was dragged to his feet.

            “Easy there, young man. It is not the Hahnar way to hurt Mulli servants. If you cooperate, no harm will come to you.”

            Asan didn’t care about himself. He cared about Raheed. The Hahnar followed Asan’s gaze to Raheed’s prone body, which had no sign of life outside of his rising chest.

            “This man will be dead by tomorrow,” the Hahnar said, pointing with his sword. “Best I end his misery now.”

            “No!” Asan blurted, still pulling against the hands that held him.

            “Ah, so you aren’t mute.” The Hahnar took a step closer to Asan. “What is your name?”

            Asan said nothing, only answering with a glare.

            The Hahnar sighed, as if disappointed. Finally he turned around and headed back to Raheed. Asan bucked even harder against his captors, and cries of protest began to bubble up from his throat. He didn’t know what they sounded like, if they even formed words. He had learned from experience that people reacted very differently to sound than they did to sight, and so he attempted to force that change, make the Hahnar _listen_ if he could not _see_. Of course, the shouting devolved into sobbing as his strength drained away. He was completely helpless as the Hahnar stood over Raheed, blade held high enough to guarantee a clean cut once dropped. Asan screamed again, because it was the only thing he could do. His body was failing, his legs crumpling beneath him. By bringing Raheed this far, Asan had brought him to his execution.           

            The Hahnar’s blade remain raised for several seconds before his shoulders slouched and his head tipped back, looking defeated. Finally, he sheathed the sword and marched back over to Asan.

            Asan was confused.

            One of the men holding Asan began to argue heatedly with the Hahnar, but the Hahnar fought back, snapping and speaking with his hands before finally shouting orders at his men. The majority of them began to mount their horses, at least the ones not holding Asan. Asan’s arms were then jerked behind him and tied together with a belt.

            “He’ll be dead by tomorrow,” the Hahnar snapped at Asan. “And he’ll suffer because of you. I hope you’re happy.”

            Asan blinked, baffled by the new development. Then he realized that the Hahnar was not going to behead Raheed after all, at least not for now. He didn’t have much time to celebrate, because Raheed was pulled off the ground and slung over Nutmeg’s back with little regard to his condition. Messenger jumped up alongside him as Nutmeg was forced to a stand, and that was all Asan saw before a blindfold was wrapped over his eyes. He was instantly assaulted by the memory of the last time he was blindfolded, which made a cold sweat start to bead along his forehead.

            Hands shoved him, so he stumbled forward. Then only one hand remained, this one on his shoulder, guiding him without forcing him. Asan hating being blindfolded, hated the darkness that rendered him completely helpless. He let out a sharp gasp of surprise when he was gripped around the waist and tossed up onto what he quickly learned was the back of a horse. Seconds later, someone mounted behind him, wrapping one arm around him to keep him in place while the other grasped the reins. Together, Asan and the Hahnar rider headed into the unknown.

 

* * *

 

            “Aunt Leyla! Aunt Leyla!”

            Leyla looked up from her book shortly before Altaf came to a skidding halt in front of her, face filled with excitement.

            “Why are you so dirty?” Leyla asked. “Your mother will be furious.”

            “Uncle Dasaf has brought home a dead Mulli soldier!”

            “What?”

            Altaf whipped around and pointed south, toward the alcazar’s main entrance. “He just arrived and he has a dead person with him! And his face is all pale, kind of like . . .” Altaf’s gaze moved toward the alcazar’s most recent visitor and guest, Fasa. She had joined Leyla for an afternoon of tea and conversation, though she’d taken to sewing while Leyla read. Leyla quickly learned that Fasa was not one for being idle, nor was she one for mindless chatter. Already Malika had gone mad after finding Fasa and Altaf climbing a tree together only hours after her arrival. “Kind of like hers. He must be Mulli! I wonder what they’ll do with his body. Maybe they’ll cut off his head and put it on the walls, like Papa once d—”

            “Shush shush.” Leyla quickly rose and put her book down onto the mat where she’d been sitting. “Don’t. Where did you see this?”

            “They’re on the front terrace, Uncle Dasaf and _Shuma_ Shallaf and—”

            “Show me.”

            “I want to see him too,” Fasa said suddenly, standing. The fabric she’d been stitching fell out of her lap.

            “Fasa, you stay here. There’s no need—”

            “I just ran from the Mullis. I deserve to see him.”

            Leyla sighed in frustration but didn’t argue any further because she didn’t want to waste time. So she took the hand Altaf offered and followed him out of the garden and along verandas, passing in and out of open rooms on their way to the front terrace. When they reached it, there were only two men on horses, talking amiably amongst one another.

            “You,” Leyla said, immediately drawing their attention. They quickly bowed their heads in respect. “Where is the Sumas?”

            “Yeah, where’s the dead Mulli?” Altaf asked excitedly. Leyla shoved him behind her and shushed him again.

            The men pointed down the narrow, steep walkway that led down to the courtroom and, beyond that, the dungeon. Leyla frowned but hurried down the path, still holding Altaf closely to her side, Fasa only two steps behind her. Leyla had to hold her caftan as high as her knees to keep from tripping on the stones that occasionally snagged her sandals. She finally spotted a few men standing by the arched entrance to the courthouse, recognizing one as Shallaf, who was already marching toward them.

            “Shallaf, what is—”

            “ _You_ talk to him,” Shallaf snapped, brushing past her. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him!”  
            Leyla watched him march up the path, perplexed. She looked back at the men, all of who seemed to be asking one another to explain.

            “Mind telling me what’s going on?” she asked in the most authoritative voice she could manage. She wasn’t quite so adept as Malika, but she was learning.

            “We found a soldier along the western border,” one said, a man whose name she recalled being Tarim. “He was nearly dead from an injury and the Sumas wanted to kill him. But . . .” He trailed off and glanced at the others. “ . . . the man’s servant put up quite a fit and convinced the Sumas to change his mind.”

            “He’s still alive then? The soldier?”

            “For now.”

            “Aunt Leyla,” Altaf whispered, standing on his toes so that he could perch his chin on her shoulder, “can I see him? I want to see him.”

            “Altaf, _you_ stay here with . . . Tarim, is it?”

            “Yes, _Shuman_ Leyla.”

            “But I want to see the Mulli!”

            “Absolutely not. You stay here.”

            Altaf pouted and crossed his arms over his chest, but Leyla ignored him.

            “A man and his servant?” Fasa suddenly asked. Her accent came from the Hahnars beyond the mountain. “What did they look like?”

            The men shrugged.

            “Mullis all look alike to us,” jested the one, jabbing another in the ribs. They all chuckled in agreement.

            “Was the soldier bearded? Like an officer?”

            “They were both bearded, though one more than the other.”

            “I thought you said it was a servant,” Leyla said.

            “The Sumas believes he is. It wasn’t much of a beard, a few days worth of shag probably from their trip over here from the Mulli camp.”

            “It’s . . . what, a week from here?” Leyla asked, turning to Fasa.

            “Less than that for me,” Fasa replied. “But I was on a horse.”

            “They did come in with a camel. And a . . . dog.”

            Fasa’s eyes widened, and she rushed forward to grab Tarim’s arm. He jolted in shock. It wasn’t that Hahnars weren’t an affectionate people, but most were wary of Fasa’s pale complexion, even if her hair and facial features were more Hahnar than _faskii_ , the race of Mullis and the ones they conquered.

            “Do you know their names?” she demanded.

            “No.”

            “Do you know them, Fasa?” Leyla asked.

            “I might. I would like to see them.”

            “Very well. Where is the soldier being held?”  
            Tarim jerked his head behind him. “They’re putting the soldier in a cell. The servant has already been taken to the keep.”

            “The keep?”

            “The Sumas thinks him harmless.” One of the men snorted while another expressed his disagreement by rolling his eyes.

            “The only harmless Mullis are _dead_ Mullis,” said the man at Tarim’s left side, and the men grinned at one another.

            “The servant is not a _Mulli_ ,” Fasa snapped back. “If he is the man I think he is, then he is just as worthy of compassion as any of you.”

            “Let’s go,” Leyla told Fasa, taking her arm. “Altaf, you stay here. That’s an order.”

            “But Aunt—”

            “No! Stay!”

            Altaf sighed in disappointment but stayed. Leyla and Fasa continued onward into the courthouse, then past the heavy wooden doors into the dungeon, which was humid and dark, hidden within the mountain itself. Leyla took a nearby torch and lit it with the tinder and flint that was placed just beside it. Then she and Fasa continued down the aisle, following the sound of voices. At least they were not imprisoning the Mulli deep, as the dungeon was about as vast as the alcazar, though much less explored. The cells buried deep within were the sort of places that never saw light or heard much more than the dripping of water along cave walls. 

            Finally Leyla saw Dasaf and two other men standing just outside a cell door, talking in low voices. They all turned when they saw Leyla’s approach.

            “Leyla!” Dasaf blurted. “What are you doing down here?”

            “Altaf saw you come in. Where is this soldier?”

            “It’s none of your concern. Why don’t you go back and—”

            “I want to see him.”

            Dasaf frowned.  “He’s nearly dead, Leyla. I imagine he’ll be gone by morning, if he lasts that long.”           

            Leyla said nothing, only stared Dasaf down as long as it took for him to give in.

            “ _Fine_ ,” he grumbled, opening the door. “Go in and see for yourself then.” Dasaf glanced past her shoulder. “Why is she with you?”

            “Fasa is a guest. I invited her to come with.”

            “Why? This does not concern—”

            “I might know him,” Fasa said, interrupting him. Leyla nearly clapped a hand over her mouth for such an infraction. Only the wise women and the higher council members would ever dare cut off a Sumas. Well, and family, which granted Leyla full rights to speak her mind and then some, a right she always exercised.

            If Dasaf were his brother, he might have locked her in a nearby cell for a day, but Dasaf just frowned and stepped back, granting them both access to the cell.

            A hasty bed of straw was tossed on the floor, along with a body, limbs strewn about as if he’d been thrown down with all the care one gave a sack of potatoes. His clothing was covered in a thin layer of dirt and sand, making his officer status impossible to recognize. The skin on his face was burnt red and peeling, his lips cracked and bleeding from the corners. His nose looked bent, and there was dried blood coating his nostrils. Once Leyla pushed his cloak from his torso, she saw what the cause of his condition was. His clothing was absolutely soaked in blood, and from the hastily wrapped wound came a smell of rotting flesh. She’d seen dead men in better condition. She thought him dead too for a moment, but one shaky breath rattled through his lungs, and his eyelids flickered with life, meager as it was.

            Leyla immediately sprung into action, marching back to the men at the doorway.

            “One of you go find Altaf and tell him to bring me my remedies as quickly as he can manage. He will be waiting just outside the courthouse. He should know of what I speak, as I’ve been giving him lessons.”

            “Leyla.” Dasaf’s expression was solemn. “There’s nothing you can do.”

            “He’s not going to die filthy and stinking of _rot_. I don’t care if he’s Mulli or not; no one deserves such an undignified end. He probably won’t live, but I can do what I can to make his passing easier.”

            “I could have offered that out _there_.” Dasaf jerked his head westward. “He actually _begged_ me to do it, Leyla. I should do it right now, if I were merciful.”

            “You didn’t.”

            “Because of—” Dasaf’s frown deepened. “Because I am weak.”

            “Is the servant in this condition as well?”  
            “No. I am already taking care of him.”

            Leyla turned to the men behind Dasaf. “Didn’t you hear me? Go get Altaf, _now_.”

            Both men jumped into action, vanishing around the corner within seconds.

            “He’s a Mulli soldier, Leyla.”

            “He’s a captain,” Fasa said from behind them. Both of them turned to her, having forgotten she was there. She was bent over the man’s shoulder, brushing his hair from her face with an uncharacteristic expression of tenderness. When she looked up, her eyes were distraught. “Captain Raheed.”

            “You know him?”

            Fasa nodded. “He is a good man. As good as Mullis come, I think. Both he and his servant kept me safe from harm when any other might have made use of me and tossed me out to decay in the sun.”

            “I don’t care if he fed lemon drops to babies, he’s _Mulli_. An officer, at that. It means he’s killed Hahnars and he’ll kill more given the chance. You want to give him a dignified death, but how many dignified deaths did he grant our brethren, eh? I bet he run them through without a second thought.”

            “You’re calling Hahnars our _brethren_ now?” Leyla said with a tinge of cold amusement.

            “We _are_ Hahnars.”

            “When we weren’t fighting the Mullis, we were fighting the Hahnars from over the mountain. They are as much our brethren as he is.” Leyla pointed to Raheed.

            “Leyla.” Dasaf’s eyes burned. He didn’t have much of a temper, but it was best not to provoke him. He was Haadi’s brother, after all. “ _Mullis_ killed my parents and my brother.”

            “ _This man_ did nothing to your parents or Haadi. Fasa insists he’s been kind to her, a Hahnar.”

            “She is not _Hahnar_. She is . . .” Dasaf looked over at Fasa, who was glaring at him now. “She is only half!”

            “That is even worse than being a Hahnar,” Fasa growled. “As both Mullis and Hahnars will call you the other.”

            Dasaf pointed a finger at her. “You will not talk to me this way.”

            “Dasaf.” Leyla laid a soft hand on his arm and watched the fire of anger quickly shrink to a flame. “Please. Let me at least ease his pain. It is all I ask.” Leyla suddenly realized how much she sounded like her sister at the moment, begging forgiveness from a wrathful Haadi. Dasaf must have seen the comparison as well, because he quickly gentled and sighed.

            “Alright. I will see to the servant. He probably won’t cooperate.”

            “Of course not. But we know you like some challenge.”

            Dasaf rolled his eyes and finally left the doorway, headed back up toward the courthouse. Leyla crossed the room again, kneeling at Raheed’s side.

            “To think I liked him for a bit,” Fasa muttered.

            “Mullis tend to be a sour spot with all of us.” Leyla brushed some of Raheed’s hair from his forehead. “Fasa, can you go the nearest well and draw some water for me please?”

            Fasa nodded and left, taking the torch with her. Luckily one of the men had left theirs, granting enough light to see by. Slowly but efficiently, Leyla began to peel back the dirty layers of clothing. She paused when she saw a Hahnar pin beneath his cloak and outer caftan, something that looked to have no actual function outside of aesthetics. It was a _Matij_ pin, something old and tarnished, perhaps a family heirloom. Why would a Mulli soldier wear such a thing? Clearly it wasn’t a public announcement of loyalty, as he’d kept it hidden beneath some heavy drapery.

            “You must have many stories to tell, Captain Raheed,” Leyla said before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a thin, short blade she normally used for cutting fabric to sew. It was this that she used to cut off the clothing stuck and crusted over with dried blood, carefully pulling it back from the wound. It looked worse and worse the deeper she dug until she finally reached his skin, which was split open and completely inflamed, some congealed blood still clinging to the edges. How could he have survived so long? He must have been very determined to live, which made little sense. He had to know that as a lone Mulli soldier on Khamal territory, his life was limited, especially so grievously injured. Perhaps it was for the servant’s sake? Leyla had only heard stories of Mulli soldiers treating servants cruelly, but she wasn’t dim enough to assume it applied to every single one. Dasaf had said the servant had begged him to spare the captain’s life. Then again, maybe that was a form of cruelty, considering Raheed’s condition. A blade across the neck would be a mercy.

            Leyla peeled the rest of his clothing from him, inspecting him for any other wounds. She found nothing except scars, one across his chest and another along his forehead, probably gained in battle. She briefly ran her finger along the fissure across his chest before noticing that his eyes had creaked open.

            “Hello,” Leyla greeted in her best Aillic, which was not so polished as Dasaf’s but comprehensible enough. “I think you should go back to sleep.”

            His lips moved and a puff of air escaped, but it took a few moments for Leyla to realize he was trying to speak. She leaned down closer, hoping to catch his words.

            “Malli,” he whispered. “You’re here.”

            Leyla couldn’t help but smile sadly. “My name is Leyla.”

            The muscles around his eyes contracted, and his expression filled with such sorrow that Leyla couldn’t help but reach out and brush his hair from his forehead once more. It was stiff with sweat and dirt, but the texture was different from that which she was used to. Hahnars of both sexes shaved their heads, growing nothing more than a thin cover of fuzz beneath their headdresses and turbans.

            “Don’t leave me,” Raheed continued. “Malli, I’m—I’m so sorry.”

            Leyla just looked on sympathetically, knowing by now that there was no convincing him that she was not Malli.

            “Stay,” he rasped. “Please stay.”

            “I will stay with you for now,” Leyla replied. She pulled off her cloak and draped it across his nude body, hoping it might grant him some comfort. “I have something that will help with the pain.”

            “I love you so much,” he whimpered, voice broken and eyes moist. “I love you.”

            “Shhh.” Leyla pressed her fingertips to his lips and continued stroking his hair, as she might Altaf when he woke up from a terrible dream. “Go to sleep. Things will be better tomorrow.”

            Raheed finally drifted back to sleep, just as a panting Fasa returned, Altaf close behind her. Leyla ordered Fasa to clean his wounds while she readied the needle and thread from her kit, as well as a sleeping tonic. She ran her needle through the flame of a candle, a trick her mother had taught her to stave off infection. After it cooled, she threaded it before gently slapping Raheed’s cheek to make sure he was out. Altaf watched on in fascination as Leyla began to pull the flayed skin together, often asking why she bothered to stitch up a man who would be dead by tomorrow. Leyla couldn’t answer, because there was no logic to it. She only knew that a man who could uttered _I love you_ as his dying words deserved to live.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I linked to my characters' look-alikes before, but I'll do it again. 8D
> 
> [Drawing of my Khamal Hahnar cast](http://25.media.tumblr.com/e7528da06d5f4de6120c713682e28b4c/tumblr_mqmf30nqfy1rey5qco1_1280.jpg)
> 
> [Leyla](http://31.media.tumblr.com/dca6dad573e3cd011dbf07bbce39c506/tumblr_mqm5f4Eb2e1rey5qco1_1280.jpg)
> 
> [Dasaf](http://25.media.tumblr.com/38c68acc2d54540fd7c65718ecfdde38/tumblr_mqm5qiWncC1rey5qco1_500.jpg)
> 
> [Shallaf](http://25.media.tumblr.com/dc0749ac2721b896ca2b246efd789171/tumblr_mqm5qiWncC1rey5qco2_500.jpg)


	7. The Alcazar

          Asan was torn between several desires: the desire to eat, the desire to sleep, and the desire to reject both until he was taken to Raheed. Once he was shoved into this small room, the blindfold was taken off and he was left alone, the ropes around his wrists cut and taken away. There was a crystal ewer of water sitting on the windowsill, more art than it was functional. Asan drank half, then allowed Messenger the rest, as the dog had been put in here with him as well. When no one came for them, they curled up on the thin mat in the corner, Messenger cradled delicately in Asan’s arms as Asan waited.

            Finally, the door was opened and a bowl of broth was put on the floor. Asan rushed to squeeze through the opening, but of course that was foolish and the door was quickly shut before he could get more than an arm through. He wanted to reject the broth, but the scent of it made his gut roll with desire, and Messenger was already lapping it up with relish. Sighing, Asan gave in. It was not a sumptuous meal, but he didn’t think he could handle a slab of lamb at the moment, as much as he fantasized about it.

            There was one window, but it was small and it was screened. When Asan rose to the balls of his feet to look through it, all he could see was a dirt courtyard with a well in the center. It was not much of a view, but it was probably more than Raheed had.

            Asan turned around and leaned against the wall, trying not to panic. His entire body was tense, his mind whirring with worried thoughts about Raheed. Was he still alive? What if they’d taken him out back and cut off his head anyway? Just thinking about it brought tears to Asan’s eyes, and he thumped a fist against the wall because he felt so _helpless_ and that in turn made him angry. It seemed no matter what, he was useless. Raheed always had to save him from one thing or another, and Asan _hated_ that, hated being some burden for Raheed carry. And now when Raheed needed him most, Asan couldn’t help. He was locked away in this room and he hadn’t a single idea about how to escape.

            _I’m sorry, Raheed_ , Asan signed to himself, rubbing away the angry tears that dripped down his face. _God, forgive me_.

            Asan sat down and curled his limbs around his torso, feeling as if he were being pulled in all directions. So much of him wanted to sleep and regain his strength, but other parts wanted to fight, to break from this room and find Raheed. Other parts kept rolling with hunger and thirst, and the pounding in his head from days ago returned with a vengeance, making it hard to think about anything. It was too much. He was not designed for such dilemmas.

            Asan knew he couldn’t do much of anything without some rest, so he curled up beneath the window with Messenger and dozed off. He woke to a dark room, lit only by a slice of moonlight on the floor. Messenger was lapping water from the fresh bowl provided him, which must have been a recent addition. Asan cursed himself, because it was a missed opportunity for escape. Still, even if he _did_ manage to escape, how would he find Raheed? He’d been torn from Raheed upon entrance, his blindfold only removed once he was inside this room. He hadn’t a clue to where he was or how to get around the place. His bedchamber now didn’t seem much like a dungeon with its tile floors and intricately designed screen window, so Asan assumed it was an unused room, not a prison cell.

            Asan yawned and scratched Messenger’s ears until the door opened again. He leapt to his feet, prepared to bowl past his intruder. But he was startled not only by the fact that she was a woman, but that he _knew_ her. It took him a moment to identify her, as he was used to seeing her in boiled leather and cotton robes provided by the army. Tonight she wore a long, loose caftan that dwarfed her thin form and a thin veil draped hastily over her full head of hair.

            “Fasa?” he said aloud.

            Fasa smiled and held out a bowl of bread that she was carrying. “Would you like some?”

            Thoughts of escape vanished as Asan grabbed a slice of warm bread and stuffed it in his mouth. Fasa turned and threw a piece to Messenger, who practically breathed it in.

            Fasa closed the door behind her and offered Asan some dried olives along with what looked like a small pitcher of camel milk. Asan wasted no time in consuming both, often simultaneously. Fasa chuckled before bending down to scratch a much livelier Messenger, whose tail wagged so forcefully that his hindquarters moved with it.

            “I made a note to find your camel,” Fasa said as Asan swallowed a large lump of food in his mouth. “She’s been given hay and a good resting place, so no need to worry about her.”

            Asan paused, lifting a cautious gaze to hers. “Raheed?” he said through a full mouth.

            Fasa bit her lip, which made Asan’s stomach drop.

            “He’s still alive,” she said finally after some deliberation. “But his condition is . . . delicate. However, one of the Hahnar women has already stitched him up and bandaged him properly. She gave him a rather large dose of sleeping tonic, so at least he’s not in any pain.”

            The food in Asan’s mouth suddenly tasted sour. He swallowed it before he could spit it out.

            “Also!” Fasa set the food on the windowsill so that Messenger could not eat it before she walked back to the door and crossed through it. She returned with a stack of what looked like clothing. “I was told to give this to you.”  
            Asan unfolded the top garment, which was a simple white caftan with nothing but a button at the neck. There were trousers and sandals as well, just soles with two thongs of leather to hold it together. Asan was used to something a bit more substantial, but it was also hotter here than it was in Ayllamal.

            “Before you dress though, I think you should take a bath. It’s been months, hasn’t it?”

            Asan had nearly forgotten about bathing, as it had been so long since he’d done it. In Ayllamal, he hadn’t gone a week without bathing at least twice. People in Ayllamal were very clean, and spices were a popular item to keep one smelling sweet. In the desert, everyone reeked of sweat so quickly and so often that Asan had stopped noticing. But now that he bent his head to smell himself, he realized he was in no way immune.

            “I’m allowed to take you out,” Fasa said. “But just down the hallway to the baths. You should see them! It’s one long building that juts out from the alcazar all the way into the city, just pool after pool. Some people have private baths, even. And it’s all fed by hot springs within the mountain, so you can imagine how wonderful it feels. I’ve always heard Hahnars are some of the cleanest people, bathing every day if they can.”

            Asan stared at her a moment. He’d known, of course, that she had gotten in trouble for their “incident” in the tent, but he hadn’t known how much trouble. Raheed hadn’t seemed concerned when leaving the camp, so Asan had assumed . . . well, Asan hadn’t really thought about it. He’d been so obsessed with Raheed that he hadn’t spared it much contemplation. Now he felt guilty for that, even though it was clear Fasa was alive and safe.

            “How . . .” he began to say, trying to visualize how the words looked leaving someone else’s mouth as he attempted to imitate it. “How you get here?”

            “Here? Raheed didn’t tell you?”

            “He . . . say . . . you run.”

            “Yes. That ass wanted Raheed to kill me, but Raheed freed me at the last second. So I took his horse and ran her as fast as I could east, which is where he told me to run. I didn’t know what was east, but I knew that anything was better than staying.”

            “Why kill you?”

            Fasa shrugged. “Because a woman you can’t fuck is useless? Who knows. I’m glad it happened because now I’m here, and I like it much more here. Only a few men have leered at me, opposed to the hundreds at the Mulli camp. Outside of my mother, I’d actually never _met_ a Hahnar.” Fasa’s cheeks reddened, though Asan didn’t know why she would be ashamed of that. “I had hoped they’d be _better_ than the men north, and maybe I’m right. I doubt it, but I want to hope. I suppose if I change my mind, I can always leave. Anyway, I like Leyla at least, and her nephew Altaf is nice enough.”

            “Who . . .” Asan tried to sound out _Leyla_ but Fasa said it so fast that he couldn’t be sure. Luckily, Fasa understood.

            “You’ll be meeting her later, I think. And the Sumas, Dasaf.” She leaned in closer, though Asan didn’t know why she bothered, because Asan couldn’t hear her anyway. “He wants to speak to you after your bath and change of clothes.”

            _Why_? Asan signed, sick of trying to talk.

            Fasa shrugged. “I don’t know. That was all he told me.” She reached out and placed a hand on Asan’s arm. “I wouldn’t be too worried. He looks fearsome, but I think he is fair. The Hahnars believe very strongly that servants of Mullis are not a threat. I’ve found them to be very hospitable, even to a half-blood like me.” A wry grin crossed Fasa’s face. “The food’s rather good too.”

            Finally, Fasa guided him out of the room and down the corridor. They had to make several turns until they were standing in what look like a major hall, the ceilings vaulted and the doorways cut in the traditional horseshoe arches that Asan saw in Ayllamal. He’d been convinced that the cultures would be so _different_ , what with the illustrations of half-naked women drowning their babies in wells that he’d read about in that book. But for the most part, this place felt very familiar to him, from the intricate leaf patterns etched around doorways to the mosaic floors that made him wary to tread on in fear of scuffing them. The book had stressed that the Khamal were a modest people, but if this was _modest_ , Asan couldn’t imagine what the palaces of the Hahnars looked like beyond the mountain.

            “Amazing, isn’t it?” Fasa asked as they passed by a beautiful garden, with squat trees and colorful flowers bursting from bushes. Bright torches cast an eerie yet tranquil glow over pediments and columns, all carved with the master’s eye. Asan couldn’t recall ever being in such a beautiful place outside of the caliph’s palace.

            “This place is _enormous_ ,” Fasa continued as they walked down a long covered hallway, lined with painted arches and huge potted plants. “I keep getting lost, but I don’t mind so much because it feels like an adventure.”

            “Where everyone?” Asan asked.

            “Oh, here and there you’ll spot a few. From what Leyla has told me, these alcazars were built to hold immense family groups, but the _Sumas’s_ family is very small compared to those in history. So there are many unoccupied rooms. Lucky for us, I suppose!”

            Asan had never seen Fasa so animated and excited, and he was glad for her enthusiasm because it distracted him from Raheed. It was easier to let one’s mind wander through empty corridors and up across arched ceilings.

            Finally they passed through several closed doors, and the humidity level spiked. Fasa pointed to the last door to cross into the baths.

            “I can’t go with you in there,” she said. “Women and men are separate. But I will come back for you soon. Then you can talk to the Sumas, explain yourself and then, hopefully, see Raheed.”

            “Raheed?”

            “Yes, I think they’ll let you see him. At least, Leyla will let you, and from what I’ve seen so far, she practically runs this place.” Fasa winked, then darted out with Messenger at her heels, leaving Asan alone.

            He could run now and look for Raheed, but he was too tired and knew that there would be no point. He’d be lost in minutes. So he pushed through the door and entered the dimly lit bath. The pool was much larger than any tub Asan had soaked himself in, though probably not capable of holding more than ten or so men. No one was here at the moment, allowing Asan privacy to strip and then slip into the water. It burned his tender skin at first, still raw from the harsh sun. But with time the pain faded and a soothing sensation set in, so Asan sank his entire body in the water and rested his head on the lip, wondering if he had become a caliph overnight. He’d never experienced such luxury. Of course there were baths in Ayllamal, but only merchants and nobles frequented them. They were places of social gatherings for Mulli-by-bloods, nothing that would accept a _bhanak_ or servant. Asan almost felt guilty for being here, as if he weren’t allowed such leisure. Somewhere back in his mind, he heard Elder Hassad snap, _Don’t you have anything better to do than lie around and wrinkle up like a date in the sun_? Asan smiled to himself as he sank deeper in the water, at least until he remember Raheed, which threw him back into his usual pit of miserable anxiety.

            Asan must have fallen asleep, because he woke to Messenger licking his face. He was still alone, but Fasa must have let Messenger in to retrieve him. He quickly rose from the bath, using a towel Fasa had given him to dry off. He slipped into his new wardrobe and met her outside, feeling refreshed yet tentative. He knew what was next, and he dreaded it.

            “You’ll be fine,” Fasa said as they continued down the path. A keep of sort rose above them, a squat minaret positioned at each corner. Asan couldn’t help but fear what was waiting for him inside, because now that he wasn’t running on the desperation and determination that had made him brave out in the desert, he returned to his usual complacent self. He was no more the soldier’s savior. Instead, he remained the humble servant, the scared beggar boy who would have rather starved than foster the humble hope that Raheed might care for him.

            Asan passed two women as he followed Fasa, both of whom turned around and stared at him. Asan shrank under their gaze, feeling more alienated than ever. At least in Ayllamal he’d _looked_ Mulli, even if he wasn’t. But he was not Hahnar, and no amount of dressing in their clothes and bathing in their bathhouses would change that.

            Fasa held an arm out to stop Asan just as a door swung open, admitting a familiar man, though Asan didn’t recognize him immediately. Like most Hahnars, he was very tall and broad, still dressed in the sand-dusted drapery he’d worn to Raheed and Asan’s capture. His most noticeable difference to the man who had nearly killed Raheed was the beard, which only covered his jawline. Asan wondered if Hahnar beards were like Mulli beards, denoting status. This man moved with the authority of a military officer, and his expression was very much like one as well.

            “ _Shuma_ ,” Fasa said, bowing slightly.

            The man frowned at both of them, opened his mouth, then thought better of it and stalked off, robes fluttering behind him.

            “The local grump,” Fasa told Asan after the man had vanished. “I think his name is Shallaf. He advises the Sumas.”

            Asan made a note to avoid the man in the future. He had no reason to believe Hahnar men were any kinder or less prejudiced than Mulli men.

            “Come.” Fasa took his arm and guided him forward, toward the door that Shallaf had just exited. Fasa knocked, and Asan choked down another swell of fear.

            She spoke to the door, and the answer from within must have been affirmative, because she pushed the door open and ushered Asan inside.

            Asan immediately recognized the man as the one who had both threatened and spared Raheed’s life. In the light of day, the _Sumas_ was an imposing figure. With only lamplight, he vaguely reminded Asan of the illustrations in that book, the one in which the Hahnar killed his camel and drank its blood. He was a large man, tall and wide, half of his face hidden behind a full dark beard. A black turban covered his head, and his body was swathed in long pieces of white fabric, different than the weathered robes he’d worn in the desert. Two short scimitars rested on either hip, the hilts made of embossed silver that glittered in the sparse light. It was clear why the Hahnars frustrated the Mulli empire as much as they intimidated it. From what Asan could see, they were a people to be reckoned with.

            As Elder Hassad had been very strict in teaching Asan basic courtesy, Asan bowed low, remaining bent for several seconds before rising again.

            To his surprise, a small smile broke the Sumas’ssevere expression, and he gestured to one of the sofas that framed the room, some so piled with pillows and fabrics that they spilled onto the floor. There was a low table as well, on top of which sat several dishes containing sweet breads and fruit. There was also a tall, narrow teapot covered in elaborate geometric designs, circled by four matching cups. Steam rose from the thin tube that served as its spout.

            “You will learn,” said the Sumas, “that Hahnar hospitality is legendary. The Mullis would know it too if they saw as allies rather than foes.”

            Asan was hesitant, because he was not used to this situation. It had always been him ushering in guests and then feeding them, never the other way around. When the Sumas continued to gesture toward the sofa, Asan timidly sat.

            “Eat, eat. It is a grave offense not to try every dish at least once on a Hahnar’s table.”

            Asan knew how Hahnars handled “grave offenses”, so he reached out and plucked a soft orange pastry from a dish, lifting it eye level in order to inspect it. He jumped slightly when the Sumas down on the other sofa, but the Sumas looked more relaxed now than ever, so Asan fought the instinct to sink into his seat so that he would not be seen as taller.

            “That is _makrout_ ,” the _Sumas_ said. “It is made from semolina, honey, and dates. I think you will like it.”

            Asan did try it, and he did like it. After finishing that, he moved onto another plate. The Sumas provided him the name of each item before Asan ate it. There were only three bowls, so luckily Asan did not have to make himself sick, as he felt his stomach had shrunken since his trip across the desert. After trying each of the fruits and pastries, the Sumas poured him a cup of tea, which baffled Asan, as he couldn’t imagine why someone as important as this man would pour _Asan’s_ tea. Mullis always saw the act as degrading, though of course they’d never admit it.

            “It is customary for a Hahnar host to offer his guest food when the guest enters his house. Is it like this where you are from?”

            Asan shook his head, then nodded, then shrugged. The Sumaschuckled as he took a sip from his own tea.

            “I suppose I should formally introduce myself. I am the Sumas of Khamal, but you may call me Dasaf. When a man takes a guest into his home, that guest becomes family, and family calls me Dasaf. Fasa has told me that your name is Asan.”

            Asan nodded.

            “You are the Mulli soldier’s servant.”

            Again, Asan nodded.

            “Are you from Mulli? I assume you aren’t, being a servant.”

            “Khafa,” Asan said, finding his throat still swollen from anxiety, which made it hard to speak.

            “I’ve never heard of it. Were you taken from there against your will to serve?”

            Asan shook his head. He opened his mouth to elaborate, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Noticing this, Dasaf held up a finger before crossing the room and taking a thick book from the window ledge, as well as what looked like a pen and inkwell. He handed them to Asan upon his return.

            “Fasa has told me that you can read and write. Very unusual for a servant to do so. She mentioned your lack of hearing as well, which I find fascinating. I’ve never met someone with such a . . . quality.”

            Usually people called it an _affliction_ , so hearing it put so neutrally made Asan smile. He’d never felt afflicted, and he didn’t understand the pity people sometimes had for him. He still wished he could be normal, but he didn’t think himself _sick_ like some did.

            Asan opened the book and began to write. When he handed it to Dasaf, Dasaf read it out loud to himself.

            “ ‘I am from village of Khafa. I meet Raheed when only eleven, when beggar boy and Raheed soldier. Raheed teach me to speak with hands, and I teach him. Raheed left, returned years later. We went to Ayllamal together as friends. We came out as captain and servant.’ ” Dasaf looked up. “It is an interesting tale.” Then he paused, brow furrowing. A realization seemed to strike him. “ _Ah!_ I remember! That Mulli _told_ me about . . .” His eyes widened as it finally seemed to sink in. “That Mulli did tell me about you. All these years I thought he was lying, but . . .” Dasaf trailed off, gaze locked on Asan. Asan bent his head, unnerved by the Hahnar’s attention. “He was not lying.”

            Asan didn’t know what to say to that.

            Dasaf suddenly stood, tossing the book down onto the cushion he’d previously occupied. Then he began to pace, crossing the room several times before finally coming to a halt across the table from Asan.

            “Why are you here? Why did you run from the Mulli camp?”

            Asan wrote down a quick of summary of what happened before handing the book over to Dasaf. Asan thought it impressive that Dasaf could both speak and read Aillic, the language of his enemies.

            With a sigh, Dasaf placed the book on the table, rubbing his eyes with a hand.          

            “Raheed,” Asan said. “Where Raheed?”

            “The Mulli? I suppose you’d like to see him.”

            Asan nodded.

            “You can see him, but I fear he’s in wretched condition. I can’t imagine him living through the night.”

            Asan dropped his head, cowed by this knowledge. He bit his lip to keep himself from falling apart, because the only reason he was alive at the moment was because of Raheed’s bravery and loyalty. Not only had Raheed pulled him from the center of the stoning ring, but he’d brought him all the way to Khamal, knowing that the Hahnars would not think kindly upon his presence.

            Dasaf sat again, expression somber.

            “I want to make it clear, Asan, that you as a servant are not a prisoner nor slave. Khamal will always open its doors to those of humble beginnings, and we believe servitude is rewarded well in heaven. But it is a _very_ different matter for Mulli soldiers. We know that they are _bhanak_ , but when taking a life, you _always_ have a choice, and the Mulli soldiers choose poorly. There are so many centuries of bad history and grudges, and half of my family is dead because of what the Mullis have done. So if Mulli lives, then he will be either executed or kept prisoner for his crimes, most likely the former.”

            Asan paled and couldn’t keep himself from gripping a pillow in despair. But he let Dasaf continue.

            “However, perhaps I can make a deal with you. I know that you are loyal to this soldier, and I know that if I were to keep him prisoner and you as a guest that you would not only look upon me unkindly but that you might attempt to free him, forcing my hand against you. I do not want this, and you do not either. So here is my offer to you. If Mulli dies—very likely, at this point—then you are free to go whenever you like. You are also free to stay. But if Mulli lives, only _one_ of you may go. You are free to leave if he remains prisoner here. And if I let him leave, then you are to remain here in his stead.”

            Asan contemplated the options, finding it shockingly easy to come to a conclusion.

            “You would be treated much better than he would,” Dasaf continued. “No one holds any ill will against you, and you would have free reign of my alcazar. You would be expected to work of course, but you would have ample leisure time to do what suits you, be it visiting to the bath houses or hiking along the mountains. There would be no chains or locked doors, as long as you remained within our territory lines.”

            It was clear which option Dasaf preferred, and Asan didn’t even attempt to fight it. Considering all the animosity between Mullis and Hahnars, he should be glad for such diplomacy. Besides, Asan had always fantasized about coming to the Hahnars and fitting in in a way that the Mullis never allowed. The only thing he had not imagined was separation from Raheed, which was inevitable no matter what he chose. It hurt, but he knew that sacrifices had to be made.

            Asan retrieved the book and wrote, _If Raheed live, leave healthy?_

Dasaf read it with a frown, as if ready to say no. But Dasaf’s gaze lifted to Asan’s, and Asan slipped on his most pathetic expression. With a sigh, Dasaf nodded.

            “ _Full health_ being the ability to walk and talk and eat on his own,” Dasaf concluded. “Well enough to ride a horse out of here.”

            Asan nodded.

            “And he will be kept in the cell where he resides now.”

            Asan nodded again, then wrote, _I stay_.

            This answer seemed to please Dasaf, who closed the book with a grin and stood.

            “Then it is done. I will take you to see Mulli.”

 

* * *

 

            Asan was blindfolded again, but he was more at ease now having spoken with the Sumas and made arrangements. He let Dasaf’s hand on his arm guide him along, down shallow steps and across uneven cobblestones until reaching a sloping path outside. Asan knew they were outside by the chilled breeze that ruffled his thin caftan, cooling whatever moisture still remained on his skin from the bath. Asan shivered, but he’d withstood more deadly inconveniences than a cold wind.

            The walk seemed to take an hour, even if it didn’t. When Asan’s blindfold was lifted, he was standing in a dark, dank hallway, the floor gritty and icy against the bare soles of his feet. Dasaf stood beside him, holding a torch aloft to light their way. He pushed a key into a heavy lock, then swung the door back to admit Asan into the dark, stuffy chamber.

            It was very much a dungeon, but Asan took a small bit of comfort in knowing that it did not yet smell of piss or death. Against the wall laid Raheed, covered by several thick blankets and encased in deep slumber. Asan ran to his side and dove to a crouch at his shoulder, looking for signs of life in his face. Someone had wiped most of the dirt from his cheeks, though his hair was still stiff with sweat and sand. Asan couldn’t help but reach out and run his hands along Raheed’s face and shoulders, reminding himself of Raheed’s shape and weight. Against his will, tears gathered in his eyes. He ducked his head and buried his face in the blankets across Raheed’s chest, clenching the fabric in two fists. So much had changed in so little time, and it came as an immense comfort to rest against the one thing that remained static. Raheed was here and solid and _alive_ , and Asan couldn’t help but think of him as _his_ soldier, a piece of beauty and strength that Asan owned, even if Raheed didn’t know it.

            Asan had spent the past year alternating between love and hate for this man, but love bloomed again, so fierce and protective that it sent pains through his chest. Asan reached up with both hands and grasped Raheed’s face before pressing several kisses to his cheeks and forehead. The things he would do for Raheed could not be counted.

            Asan sat up and stroked Raheed’s hair, which resulted in a brief fluttering of Raheed’s eyes. Asan leaned in closer, rubbing soothing circles with a thumb against Raheed’s jaw. When Raheed’s eyes creaked open, his gaze was distant and unfocused.

            “Asan?” he croaked through cracked, flaky lips.

            Asan nodded, pressing his lips tightly together to keep himself from falling apart.

            Raheed gazed at him for a few seconds before falling back asleep. Asan grabbed Raheed’s hand and squeezed it before pressing a fervent kiss to his knuckles.

            He wanted to sit there forever to keep watch, to chase away death’s shadow when it arrived. But after a few minutes, a hand touched Asan’s shoulder, drawing him back.

            “Come,” Dasaf said, expression gentle yet firm. “You need rest.”

            “Stay,” Asan said. “I wan—want . . .” Asan’s struggled to fit his mouth around the word. Dasaf seemed to understand, but he shook his head.

            “There is nothing you can do for him now. Leyla will visit him early tomorrow. If anything has changed, she will come for you.”

            Too tired to argue, Asan nodded and stood, squeezing Raheed’s hand one last time before he rested it on top of Raheed’s chest. He signed _I love you. Please don’t leave me yet_ at Raheed’s prone form, then bowed his head and followed Dasaf back out into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have for a long time imagined that first meeting, and Dasaf has always looked like [this](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3e/Charlemont_-_The_Moorish_Chief.jpg) in my head. Handsome, terrifying, and awe-inspiring, all at once. I've linked the painting before but hot damn, it's one of my favorites. :) 
> 
> [Makrout](http://0.tqn.com/d/moroccanfood/1/0/N/B/-/-/makrout-dates.jpg) is an actual Moroccan dish. I'm kind of all over the place with this story and the Hahnars, considering alcazars are Umayyad-Spanish while Makrout is Moroccan, but the whole point to making this a fantastical world is that I can make shit up and do what I want. 8D 
> 
> [Arak](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8tP6A2mUyg/ULUFC3sQpII/AAAAAAAAbR8/Go4PKGCmOHk/s400/arakbatroundmountains.jpg) is a real thing too, in case you didn't know. :3


	8. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many songs that I write this story to. I shall give one per chapter from here on, in case you feel like listening to them as you read. :)
> 
> [Hunger by Hans Zimmer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVlFeE-TQdE)

 

            “So Shallaf is not a happy man at the moment.”

            Dasaf looked up from his meal with a frown. Malika had spent the entire breakfast glaring at her plate while Leyla and Dasaf pretended not to notice. Altaf had vanished the moment he’d finished eating, perhaps to climb some more trees. Dasaf had heard he’d grown rather fond of the activity lately, much to his mother’s displeasure.

            “Shallaf is _never_ a happy man,” Dasaf replied.

            Leyla took a sip of milk. “Have you tried to talk to him?”

            “That always makes him _more_ angry at me.”

            Leyla chuckled, then turned to her sister. “Honestly, Malika, don’t pout.”

            “I think this entire _debacle_ is completely ridiculous.” Malika wiped her hands on the handkerchief in her lap, turning a sour expression to Dasaf. “Kill the Mulli and be done with it. I don’t know why Leyla has to play nurse to a murderer, wasting her perfectly valuable time on disgusting _trash_.”

            “Hey, now.” Dasaf pushed a piece of bread into his mouth. “You haven’t seen him. If anything he’s rather handsome trash.”

            “Oh, _of course!_ ”Malika snapped. “Is this a joke to you? Is _everything_ a joke to you?”

            “Malika,” Leyla scolded. “Do we have to? I think Shallaf has already—”

            “Shallaf is absolutely right. Have you forgotten that his role is to _advise_ you?”

            “Really? I thought it was to be my mother,” Dasaf grumbled.

            “ _Someone_ ought to.” Malika made a sound of derision before angrily returning to her food. “Completely ridiculous. If it were Haadi—”

            Dasaf didn’t mind Malika’s sharp tongue, but there were some things he would not tolerate. He slammed both hands on the table, startling Leyla and silencing a fuming Malika.

            “Don’t,” Dasaf warned in a low, careful voice. “Do not. I’m warning you, Malika.”

            “Warning me for what? What will you do, hmm? Toss me in a jail cell for a few hours and perhaps slap my wrist for being impudent? You’ll release me within the day because you can’t stomach suffering. Can’t stomach _discipline_.”

            “I stomach it well enough.”

            “I have seen no evidence. Even with Altaf, you are a friend instead of a leader. Altaf must learn to make difficult decisions for the sake of his people, and _you_ are being a bad example.”

            “I’m sure Haadi would have been a far better father,” Dasaf snapped back. “Just like he was a _magnificent husband_ , right?”

            Malika threw down her handkerchief, stood, and marched out of the room without a single glance back. Leyla watched her leave, then turned to face Dasaf with an expression of disappointment.

            “What?” Dasaf asked sharply.

            “You should not have brought that up.”

            “She’s always going on about how _awful_ I am at my role, how _Haadi_ would have been better. How quickly she forgets that she once hated him.”

            “She never hated him.”

            “Oh, I’m sure that their screaming matches were ones of love.”

            Leyla sighed in defeat, looking down at her meal as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite. “You shouldn’t taunt her for these things. She did the best she could with Haadi.”

            “I know that. I’m on _her_ side, and he was _my_ brother. I knew what he was capable of, the rage that boiled inside of him. And yet _that_ is preferable to _my_ leadership? I treat Altaf with respect and love like his father never would have, and _I’m_ the one deserving of scorn?”

            “Dasaf, Haadi would have loved—”

            “Haadi knew no love. Not after Father trained him.” Now that they were on this subject, Dasaf hadn’t much of an appetite either. It was always a poor decision to wander old memories.

            “She wasn’t always like this,” Leyla muttered to her food. “She worries. She wants the best for Altaf.”

            “Then you’d think she’d want me to be as caring an uncle as possible. But she’d rather Altaf fear me, like I feared Father.”

            “She knows how some regard your leadership.”

            “People will always complain. If you are too kind, they want you to start wars. If you are too belligerent, they want you to bless babies. I have stopped asking for the approval of my people on every issue. I love them and do what I think is best, and if they think it is too soft, then so be it. I’d rather save a dozen men than kill one.”

            Leyla smiled before reaching over and patting his hand. He took it, returning her smile with a touch of gratitude. When politicians and advisors screamed in his ears, he’d found that Leyla was always the voice of compassion and reason keeping him afloat. Malika had once been that too, but she’d changed. Dasaf could understand; he was not left unscarred by his experiences either.

            “You don’t have to tend to that soldier if you don’t want to,” Dasaf finally said.

            “I don’t mind. Malika doesn’t agree with me, but I don’t think men are inherently evil by the loyalties they swear. Fasa seems to like him, and Fasa doesn’t like anyone.”

            Dasaf laughed. “Well, she likes _you_.”

            Leyla hitched up an eyebrow. “Everyone likes me.”

            Dasaf clamped a hand on her shoulder with a chuckle. “That is because you are the second prettiest one here.”

             A figure strode through the arched doorway, and Dasaf groaned. Such a lovely mood spoiled by the arrival of his advisor.

            “What is it, Shallaf?”

            “Can I speak with you?”  
            “Now?”

            “Yes, _now_.”

            With an exaggerated sigh of weariness, Dasaf climbed to his feet, muttering, “Yes, _Mother_ ,” under his breath. Leyla giggled but hid it behind a hand. She nodded at Shallaf, whose reception was cold. But that shocked no one.

 

* * *

 

            Leyla wandered down to the dungeon with her basket of healing remedies, Fasa at her side. Fasa was attempting to pick the dirt out of her fingernails, occasionally reaching back to shove her wild mass of curls out of her face. Leyla was rather amused by all of it, because spending so much time around Dasaf had softened her views on proper etiquette.

            Fasa opened the dungeon cell door and pushed the door open for Leyla. “Is he still alive?” she asked as she held the torch higher.

            Leyla didn’t answer, only crossed the room and sat down at the soldier’s side. She was happy to see his chest rise with a shaky breath, and when she pressed her hand to his forehead, she found it cooler than yesterday. That was definitely a good sign. It hadn’t been her prediction, but perhaps Raheed’s fighting skills extending to those needed to save his life.

            “Can you wake him up?” Fasa asked, creeping closer.

            “I don’t see why I should. It’ll be easier if he’s asleep.” Leyla pulled the blankets down to his waist and began to unwrap the bloody bandages, dropping the loose end to his side and then tugging hard on the other end until it slipped underneath him.

            Fasa made a sound of mild disgust low in her throat. “Why is that men’s bodies are so . . . _wrong_?”

            Leyla looked up at her with mild interest. “Oh?”

            Fasa hid her gaze with a flattened hand. “I’ve seen more naked men than a whore. I find them disgusting.”

            Leyla looked down at Raheed’s bared chest. She was rather immune to the sight of nude bodies, thanks to her work with the elderly and disfigured. But if she had to conjure up an opinion over Raheed’s body . . . well. She certainly wouldn’t consider it _disgusting_.

            “Men haven’t treated you well, I assume.”

            Fasa snorted a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”

            “You’ve nothing to fear here. There are men everywhere who take unwilling women to bed, but not in this alcazar.” Leyla gave her a comforting smile. “Probably because it’s run mostly by women. And Dasaf.”

            “Dasaf’s a man.”

            “He’s . . . a different sort of man.”

            “What does that mean? I’ve found all men are the same, at least in that regard.”

            “Trust me. You have nothing to fear from Dasaf.”

            “He’s not your husband, is he?”

            Leyla nearly laughed, but she didn’t know why. It wasn’t the first time one had asked, and it certainly wasn’t the first time her own mother insinuated it as a possibility.

            “No. He’s not. He is not married.”

            “Oh. But you two seem close.”

            “We are. We are good friends and have been since Malika was married to his brother. In fact, I was supposed to marry Haadi. I’m younger, but Haadi, uh . . .” She tried to decide upon how to word it and found no good way. “Haadi thought me more beautiful. But I had no interest in marrying him, and Malika was, at the time, a rather foolish lovesick girl who had romantic notions about marrying a Sumas. She thought him handsome, and in the end he agreed to it. Now that Dasaf is Sumas _,_ everyone wants me to marry him, including my sister and mother. But . . .” Leyla’s hands paused as they unwrapped the bandage, stalling completely when the wound was uncovered. “Well. Dasaf and I would not be a good match. I’d be willing, I think, if only to make my family and my people happy, but Dasaf is strictly against it. He says I deserve a man that I love.” She rolled her eyes. “He is a foolish romantic.”

            “He struck me as rather fearsome.”

            Leyla had heard it before, but she couldn’t imagine it herself. He’d been thirteen when they’d first met, gangly and awkward and nervous speaking to women who weren’t his mother. He was the polar opposite of his older brother, who was silent, strong, confident, and handsome. Even with Haadi looking so dashing, Leyla had been drawn to Dasaf first. She thought him gentler, more thoughtful.

            “It’s a mask he wears. Honestly, I fear _dogs_ more than I fear Dasaf, and if anyone knew him well, they’d believe the same.” Leyla pulled out a jar of homemade salve and handed it to Fasa. “Would you help me in applying this?”

            The two women worked silently, washing the wound and then spreading it with salve and herbs before wrapping it again. Leyla used the wet, soapy rag to wipe more of the dirt from Raheed’s skin, dampening his hair as well in hopes of removing some sand. His eyelids fluttered and then clenched, but he slept on.

            “Do you know of a Malli?” Leyla asked Fasa.

            Fasa shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

            “Hmm.” Leyla traced the scar along his temple and forehead with a finger. “Just wondering.”

           

* * *

 

            Asan slept well, as did Messenger, who curled up against Asan’s chest and stayed with him throughout the night. When Asan woke, there was a plate of rolls and fried eggs waiting for him on the windowsill, meaning that someone had crept in while he slept. The food was better than anything he’d made, and he couldn’t help but feel a tad jealous as he ate it. The spices were different, the rolls scattered with seeds he’d never seen before. But it was good, and he could only feel disappointment upon finishing it. He was still hungry, even though he knew he had to regulate his diet as his stomach adjusted to the sudden intake of food.

            After breakfast, Asan tested the doorknob and was surprised to find the door open. Slowly, he crept out into the hallway, which was empty. Dasaf must have been serious about allowing him free rein.

            Asan waved at Messenger, inviting him along. For the next few hours, Asan explored the alcazar, which was more than just a house. It was attached to a few other buildings as well, such as the bathhouses, temples, and public halls. Asan was tempted to go even further and see what the rest of the city looked like, but if he lost his way he wouldn’t be able to ask for help, so he remained within the alcazar walls. It wasn’t like there wasn’t enough to see.

            Asan was finally adjusting to the sight of Hahnars everywhere, though he still felt like a stranger. At least in Ayllamal he could blend in, but amongst Hahnars he was a donkey in the herd of horses. Most didn’t stare, but some did, a few children even turning around and pointing. Asan wouldn’t deny children their curiosity, but he did feel better after returning to the inner gardens of the private alcazar, where only Dasaf’s family and guests were allowed to wander. He came upon a skinny boy wrapped around the trunk of a tree, yelling at a small monkey that sat on the tree’s uppermost branches. He was perhaps ten or twelve, at an age just before manhood began.

            Messenger leapt forward and began barking up the tree as well. The boy stopped his scrambling and turned to the dog, then looked over his shoulder at Asan.

            “Who are you?” the boy asked with a wrinkled nose. He spoke Aillic as well, which surprised Asan for a moment. So far the only Hahnar he’d met who could speak it was Dasaf. Asan briefly wondered why the boy would speak to him in a language that was not his own, but _of course_ the boy would speak Aillic to a man who was clearly not Hahnar.

            “Asan,” Asan replied.

            “Yeah, but why are you _here_?”

            “I am . . . guest,” Asan forced out.

            “Why do you talk weird?”

            Asan felt his face flush, because most people were either mature or kind enough not to mention it.

            “Oh, hey!” The boy whipped around, leaving his monkey to the tree as he stepped up in front of Asan. “I know who you are! You’re that Mulli soldier’s servant, aren’t you? If you’re a servant, how come you have a beard? Servants don’t have beards.”

            “Can’t . . .” Asan made a gesture as if raking a blade across his jaw.

            “You can’t shave?” the boy asked.

            Asan nodded.

            “Well, you can’t grow too big of a beard around here. You only grow a full beard when you’re the eldest male in your family. Are you the eldest?”

            Asan thought a moment, then nodded.

            “But you’re too young.” The boy gave Asan a skeptical look, but continued on unfazed. “Did your parents die? My papa’s dead.”

            Asan was a tad shocked by the boy’s bluntness, but Asan supposed at that age he was about the same way.

            “My,” Asan began, carefully sounding it out, as he was self-conscious now, “parents . . . are . . . gone.”

            “Gone? Dead or gone?”

            “Gone.”

            “Did they leave you?”

            Asan nodded.

            “That’s cuz they’re not _Hahnar_. Hahnar parents never leave their children, not ever. Unless they die.”

            Asan didn’t know how to tell him that _all_ parents in _all cultures_ occasionally left their children, and he didn’t want to waste the time perfecting his pronunciation. So he let it go.

            “So what’s wrong with you? Why do you talk funny?”

            Asan pointed to his ears. “Cannot hear.”

            “Can’t _hear_? But how are you understanding me right now?”

            Asan gestured to his lips. “I read.”

            “Wow! That’s so amazing! You can read my lips? For everything I say?”

            Asan nodded.

            “I could never do that. People say I’m smart cuz my uncle and aunt taught me Aillic when I was young, but I don’t think I can read lips. You must be so smart.”

            Asan blinked, unable to respond. Everyone always assumed he was simple because of his “affliction”. No one had _ever_ hinted that it might make him more intelligent, except perhaps Elder Hassad, though of course never so frankly.

            “Hey, you wanna help me get my monkey out of the tree?”

            Asan wasn’t so sure how he felt about climbing trees _or_ catching monkeys, but he thought this Hahnar boy rather interesting, so he agreed. They spent the next hour using fruit and various other treats to lure the monkey down, and finally the monkey leapt from a branch and landed on the boy’s shoulder, as if he’d never left it. The monkey grabbed the orange slice the boy offered and shoved it whole into its mouth, wrapping its tail around the boy’s throat as it ate.

            “This is my monkey, Tajir. What’s your dog’s name?”

            “Messenger.”

            “Why’s he called that?”  
            Asan frowned, hating questions that required long answers. He took a deep breath and did his best. “He comes . . . gets me when . . . people call. Because—” Asan pointed to his ears, “—I cannot hear.”

            The boy bent down and scratched behind Messenger’s ears, though the monkey hissed and climbed atop the boy’s head to avoid Messenger’s curious nose.

            “I’m Darim. Well, Darim Altaf, but only family and friends are allowed to call me Altaf.” Darim Altaf tilted his head back to look at Asan, squinting in the sunlight. “Do you know who I am?”

            Asan shook his head.

            “The Sumas is my uncle. I’ll be Sumaswhen I’m old enough though.”

            Asan wasn’t sure if he should bow or kneel, so he stayed standing. But he nodded and signed, _Pleasure to meet you_.

            “What did you just do?”

            “How I talk.” Asan then said, _It is much easier to speak with my hands than my tongue_.

            Darim Altaf looked delighted. “Can you teach me something? Bad words, maybe?”

            Asan laughed, then shook his head. “Uncle would be mad.”

            “Yeah right.” Darim Altaf rolled his eyes. “My uncle says bad words all the time. It drives my Mama crazy. She thinks he should be more strict, but I don’t mind. When I’m Sumas, I’ll swear all the time, all day. No one will be able to tell me not to.”

            Suddenly Darim Altaf turned and looked into the distance. Asan saw that a woman was making her way down the path, dressed in a yellow embroidered caftan, her head covered by an elaborately knotted headscarf. Asan considered sneaking away, but the woman caught sight of him and smiled pleasantly.

            “You must be Asan,” she said in Aillic.

            Asan nodded.

            “I am Leyla, this tyrant’s aunt.” She placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders, and he grinned up at her. “Fasa has told me about you.”

            “Hey, Aunt Leyla, did you know that Asan can read lips and talk with his hands?”

            “I know he is deaf.”

            “What’s _deaf_?”

            “He cannot hear.”

            “Oh, I already knew that.” Darim Altaf pointed to the palm tree. “He helped me get Tajir out of the tree.”

            Leyla reached up to pat the monkey, but the monkey scowled at her, so she pulled her hand away.

            “Did he? Well, what was the monkey doing up there in the first place?”

            “Tajir likes to climb up. He doesn’t like to climb down.”

            “Why don’t you go feed him then? He might prefer the ground where there’s food.”  
            “Alright.” Darim Altaf threw a smile at Asan. “It was nice meeting you, Asan.”

            Asan nodded, and the boy and his monkey took off down the path, skipping so that his feet landed on every other stepping-stone. He struck Asan as being a very carefree young man, unfettered by the responsibilities that had burdened Asan at that age. Asan had always imagined about what might have happened had be been born into a family such as this one, but maybe he _had_ been. Maybe that was why he was abandoned—no one wanted a crippled child.

            “Well.” Leyla gave Asan a once-over. “You are not entirely what I expected.”  
            Asan lifted his eyebrows curiously.

            “You are bigger than I would have thought, but I suppose in my mind I think of Mulli servants as being malnourished and scarred like slaves.”

            “Some . . . maybe.”

            “You are lucky then.”

            Asan nodded.

            “Altaf wasn’t bothering you, was he?”  
            Asan shook his head quickly. He had rather enjoyed Darim Altaf and found him a relief to the unwelcoming stares of the other Hahnars.

            “Sometimes he’s so much like Dasaf that it scares me,” Leyla said. “Though I’d never tell that to his mother.”

            “Do you . . .” Asan closed his eyes a moment, trying to concentrate on the movement of his tongue to make sure he was pronouncing words correctly. _Imagine Elder Hassad’s guidance_. With the old cleric’s voice in his head, Asan was able to finish, “. . . have children?”

            “Oh, no! I’m not married.”

            “Dasaf . . . Dasaf say that you—you take care of . . . Raheed?”

            “Ah. Yes.” Leyla’s expression sobered slightly. “He is doing much better than I expected. Which isn’t to say he’s doing _well_ , but I never imagined he’d make it another day in his condition. God must truly want him here.”

            Her words filled Asan with such joy that he resisted the urge to embrace her. He imagined she might not take kindly to that, so he kept his hands at his side.

            “He will live,” Asan said firmly.

            “I don’t know. I really don’t.” Leyla looked disappointed that she couldn’t offer better news. “I know that he is Mulli and that perhaps I should not want him to live, but . . .” She sighed. “Fasa speaks highly of him, and Dasaf has told me that you fought for his life.”

            Asan nodded. “Raheed saved _my_ life.”

            Leyla smiled at this, and while Asan was mostly neutral about the looks of women, he thought Leyla to be a very pretty woman, maybe even on par with Malli, in a very different way. Leyla hadn’t any of the gold baubles or smoky kohl-lined eyes, but there was a serenity in her that Asan wanted to trust.

            “Are you comfortable here?” Leyla asked.

            “Here? Khamal?”

            “Yes. Dasaf was rather insistent that you be accommodated like a guest.”

            “ _Why_?”

            Leyla chuckled. “Dasaf has _ideas_ about people that may or may not be true. He has written this morose tale in his head in which you are the hapless slave of an evil empire and that this is his chance to save you from your squalor. He likes to be the hero in these tales, you see. I don’t think you are the hapless slave of anyone, but he can believe what he likes if it makes both of you happy.” Leyla paused, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling on.”

            “It is common,” Asan said, remembering how Samid had confessed some of his darkest secrets within fifteen minutes of knowing Asan. It had to do with the silence, as Asan found reading lips much easier than trying to speak himself. Silence made others uncomfortable, a fact he found amusing.

            “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that you have nothing to fear from Dasaf. I’d avoid my sister and Dasaf’s grandmother, however. I don’t think they appreciate you being here, and _especially_ not your Mulli soldier.”

            Asan nodded his understanding, then glanced around the garden before asking, “My camel?”  
            “Ah! She’ll probably be with the other camels. Let me show you.”

            Leyla led Asan down hallways and along winding paths until they finally reached what looked like a paddock, closed in with tall stone walls. Several camels stood eating hay while others slept. It didn’t take long for Asan to see Nutmeg, as she was the darkest one among them. He jumped and waved his hand, drawing her attention. When she saw him, she walked over as calmly as if she’d seen him yesterday. He laughed when she pressed her head against his chest and nuzzled his clothing. Kissing her forehead, he wrapped his arms around her and embraced her like he would a lost child. With Nutmeg here and Raheed’s health on the ascent, his family wasn’t so broken after all.

           

* * *

 

            Asan was again invited to eat a light dinner with Dasaf, as the Khamal Hahnars ate large, late lunches and then mostly fruit and dessert pastries at night. Asan had read in the Hahnar book that the Hahnars socialized late, so late that no party was complete without bedding for the guests to collapse upon. Then again, he wasn’t sure how much of that book had been true. He’d already found several flaws, as he’d spotted no Hahnar drinking blood or throwing babies down wells. The book had made them sound so uncivilized, but Asan had yet to find anything he thought savage. In fact, they seemed very similar to Mullis, though no Hahnar or Mulli would ever admit it.

            Asan had returned to his room to find it more furnished than he’d left it, with a mirror and a few more caftans to choose from, as well as more pillows and several lamps. He wondered if it was common courtesy or if Dasaf had demanded it. Asan pulled a caftan from the pile, finding this one far more detailed than the plain white one he’d been initially given. There was silver embroidery along the neckline and sleeves, something that would be seen as too ostentatious for a servant to wear in Ayllamal. He ran a thumb along the stitching, wondering why he hadn’t simply been given a few more white caftans. Was there a certain dress code for dinner? Asan hadn’t a clue.

            He found shoes as well, nothing that a Sumas might wear but sturdy enough to last a walk from his room to the room Fasa had taken him to before. He changed into one of the new caftans, pulled on the slippers, and took a quick glance in the mirror. Beside it he noticed a bowl of water, a blade, and a bar of soap. He grinned, because while so many Mulli found value in their beard, Asan’s was driving him crazy. He instantly took advantage of the blade and carved off all the scruff he’d acquired since leaving the camp. His beard had been patchy and uneven anyway, nothing like what Raheed grew.

            After washing his face, Asan was pleased with his reflection. He flattened the caftan across his chest, indulging in a moment of vanity. The last time he’d worn something like this was when he’d attended the caliph’s party with Raheed.

            Asan shook his head, scolding himself. Since when did he gaze upon the mirror like a haughty princess? In fact, Elder Hassad thought it best to keep the house free of them. So rarely did Asan look at himself that it came as a bit of a shock when he came upon the gauntness of his face. He looked older, his skin darkened by the sun. That girl who brought them milk had called him handsome, but he was wary of that assessment. He thought himself rather plain.

            With a sigh, Asan turned from the mirror and left his room, heading down the hall and toward the keep for his dinner with the Sumas.


	9. Late Night Liasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song selection](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cct_nHq-hmA) for this chapter

 

            Dasaf was sipping tea when he heard a knock. Dasaf normally would have shouted a “come in”, but considering his visitor, Dasaf stood and opened the door himself. Asan stood on the other side, looking slightly lost and uncertain. Dasaf couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing one of the caftans he’d sent to him, something slightly smaller and heavier that did Asan’s build more favors. Dasaf smiled and stepped aside to allow him entrance.

            Asan stepped forward with hesitation, like a hare leaving its den. Dasaf closed the door behind him, then crossed the room and sank onto the sofa, feeling even more at ease when confronted with Asan’s ambivalence. He gestured to the plates of sweets and the tea.

            “Whatever you like,” Dasaf said.

            Asan slowly sat, looking to Dasaf before reaching for the tea. Dasaf nodded. Self-consciously, Asan poured himself some tea, occasionally glancing at Dasaf as if afraid Dasaf may revoke his permission. While part of Dasaf was amused, he didn’t like Asan’s unease about such simple interaction. Clearly someone had trained him to behave this way, most likely tyrannical Mullis.

            “Have you always been Mulli’s servant?” Dasaf asked as Asan sipped his tea.

            “Mulli?”

            “I forget his name,” Dasaf lied.

            “Raheed.”

            “Yes. Him.”

            Asan pursed his lips a moment, then shook his head. “Elder Hassad. Cleric.”  
            Dasaf had to strain his ears to understand the words, but he managed. “A cleric?”

            Asan nodded.

            “And how was he to you?”

            “He taught me to read, write, speak.”

            “So you liked him.”

            Asan nodded again.

            “Has anyone treated you cruelly?”

            Asan began to shake his head, then paused and nodded. Dasaf had figured. He’d heard many stories of ill-treated servants, and Fasa had certainly confirmed Mulli’s treatment of the women they conquered.

            Asan pointed to gash across his forehead. “Stone.”

            Dasaf’s eyes grew. “Someone threw a rock at you?”

            To Dasaf’s surprise, Asan pushed down the neckline of his caftan and pointed to the huge purple bruise along his collarbone. “Two rocks. Might be . . .” Asan shook his head, frustrated. He got up and retrieved the book that he’d written in last time and wrote out the rest of the story, handing it over for Dasaf to read.

            _I almost stoned because Raheed let Fasa escape. Threw two stones before Hahnars invaded the camp and we run._

Dasaf couldn’t help but smile, because as tentative as their peace was with the Hahnars, it pleased him beyond measure to hear of them invading a Mulli camp and delivering justice to those who had attempted to stone Asan. Dasaf wasn’t sure the Hahnars were much kinder to their servants and slaves, but at least they’d done some good in freeing the Mulli’s.

            “That was very fortunate.”  
            Asan nodded.

            Dasaf looked back down at what Asan had written. “Your handwriting is beautiful.”

            Asan’s eyes widened, shocked by the compliment. He looked away, nodding slightly in thanks. Clearly he wasn’t used to praise. Dasaf wondered why it was Asan’s first time hearing it, considering the quality of his script. After years of lessons, Dasaf _still_ couldn’t write a decent letter, at least not one that pleased his grandmother.

            “I’ve seen you speak with your hands.”

            Asan nodded.

            “You speak with Mulli this way?”

            Asan nodded again.

            “Can you teach me some of it?”

            Once again, Asan seemed surprised by the request, but finally he agreed. He wrote down the word before making its gesture, and Dasaf would copy. Sometimes if Dasaf’s method was incorrect, Asan would reach between them and lightly take his hand, moving it to its right location. Dasaf laughed at his own incompetence, which seemed to help with Asan’s obvious anxiety at correcting a superior. Dasaf found it all incredibly endearing, and despite his better judgment, he found himself taking a liking to this Mulli servant. With such chaotic politics in Dasaf’s life, he found it so calming to spend an evening sipping tea and learning a silent language from such a quiet, gentle teacher. Dasaf had always had a love of languages, evidenced by his willingness to learn the language of the Mullis. Even Haadi had loathed to speak it, even though it was necessary for his position as Sumas. Dasaf thought the language perfectly harmless; he wouldn’t equate words with the actions of the Mulli soldiers.

            “It is late,” Dasaf finally said, standing. “I am sure your bed beckons.”

            Asan stood as well, bowing as if by habit. Most bowed out of respect for him anyway, so Dasaf allowed it. When Asan straightened, Dasaf resisted the urge to embrace him, though he might have any other man. It would be seen as inappropriate for a Hahnar to embrace a Mulli servant like a brother. Perhaps Dasaf wanted an excuse to touch him, to ease the tension across his shoulders. Dasaf shook those thoughts away, considering them dangerous.

            “Goodnight, Asan,” Dasaf said with a smile.

            “Goodnight, Sumas.” Then Asan turned and left.

 

* * *

 

            Asan couldn’t sleep, still worried about Raheed. Dasaf hadn’t offered to take him there to see him, and Dasaf had bid him goodnight before Asan could fit in a request. So after a long period of rolling about and thinking of the worst scenario imaginable, he climbed out of bed and slipped into the heavy dark cloak that had been provided, something to keep him warm on the cold Khamal nights.

            Asan began to wander, keeping track of each turn so that he wouldn’t get lost. Most of the alcazar was dark, but he was drawn to a flame in the distance, one that burned beyond a latticed wall. It was attached to the Keep, leading Asan to believe it was some private garden. But it wasn’t _that_ private, as Asan could peak through the lattice. He felt guilty for snooping, but when he spotted Dasaf standing in the center of the small courtyard, he couldn’t turn away. Dasaf had been unusually kind and gracious, and Asan wasn’t sure if it was because he was planning something or if Dasaf were really so accommodating.

            Dasaf wasn’t alone. Sitting on a bench facing him was Shallaf, Dasaf’s advisor. Both of their turbans had been removed, leaving their shaved heads bare. Shallaf’s beard was restricted to his jawline, though he shared Dasaf’s style of jewelry as well as the color and cut of his robes. For the first time, Shallaf didn’t look angry. He didn’t look cheerful either, but it was shocking to see anything but disdain on those hard features. Meanwhile, Dasaf strode back and forth in front of him. They were arguing about something, but Asan couldn’t read their lips, considering they were speaking in Hahnar. It was rather pointless to keep watching, so Asan began to stand.

            He quickly changed his mind.

            Shallaf rose and turned to face Dasaf, and they seemed to share an unspoken conversation. Then Shallaf took a few steps forward, and Asan had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from gasping. Shallaf took Dasaf’s head in his hands and planted a rather powerful kiss on the Sumas’smouth. Asan expected Dasaf to hit him or run him through, but Dasaf merely melted into the contact, his arms sliding around his advisor’s torso and latching behind him. Asan stared with both shock and arousal, because he’d never _seen_ two men ever do such a thing. He’d thought that maybe seeing it might cure his fantasies, but seeing it only made them stronger.

            Though Asan had no concept of “quiet”, he tried not to disturb any bushes or stones as he stood and darted away, heading back to his bedroom. His heart was pounding in his throat, but he couldn’t keep the giddy smile from his mouth. There _was_ someone like him in the world! Two people! Asan wasn’t sick or crazy, or maybe he was, but he wasn’t the _only one_.

            Once he returned to his room, he closed the door and leaned his shoulders against it, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. The Sumas was like him. Maybe . . . maybe the Sumas already knew about Asan’s proclivities. Maybe that’s why he invited Asan to that dining room to share tea and dessert. Could he possibly have an interest in . . .?          

            Asan should have been horrified by the prospect, but he found it strangely alluring. The thought of someone wanting him, desiring him in the way he’d always yearned for Raheed—the thought made him shiver. He had kissed Samid, but Asan found himself imagining such contact shared with the Sumasinstead. Heat rushed into Asan almost as quickly as shame, but he couldn’t stop the train of thought. He knew it would be different. Samid had been paid to kiss him and felt no actual desire for it. The Sumas would be different. Asan recalled riding into Khamal with the Sumas at his back. At the time, he’d been malnourished and terrified, completely oblivious to the proximity of the most powerful Hahnar in Khamal. But now that he remembered it . . .

            Asan pressed two fingers against his teeth as he sank down to the floor, overwhelmed by a wave of lust so forceful that he felt his throat vibrate with a moan. He knew the Sumas most likely was not interested in anything Asan had to offer, but the _fantasy_ of it—that was what made Asan’s entire body flush with heat.

            If he touched himself to such thoughts, it would make them real. It was hard enough thinking of Raheed in such a way. If the Sumas ever knew . . . well. Asan couldn’t indulge himself. He’d gotten rather adept at denying himself touch, so he merely squeezed his legs together and rested his forehead against his knees, breathing hard and fast. Asan had read some of Elder Hassad’s books that condemned self-pleasure. They spoke of sacrifice and the all-knowing eye of God, of chastity and self-control. Asan whimpered and curled himself tighter, repeating memorized lines from scripture in an attempt to distract himself. It wasn’t until Messenger trotted over and laid his head on Asan’s lap did Asan manage to unravel himself and stand. Once again, the mind had prevailed over the flesh. He was proud of himself.

            It didn’t keep his dreams holy, however. When Asan woke the next morning, he had spilled himself all over the inside of his trousers. With a whine of disgust, Asan pulled them off, replaced them, then went to fetch a bucket of water to clean them with.

           

* * *

 

            It took Raheed several minutes to gather the strength to open his eyes. Just opening them was only half the battle. _Keeping_ them open was one of the hardest tasks he’d ever taken on. But he was determined to wake, as he wasn’t alone in his room.

            _Hahnar_! a voice in his head screamed, and his reflexes demanded that he grab his sword. But his arms wouldn’t move, and he didn’t think he was wearing it anyway. Everything in his body hurt, and it took a great deal of determination to keep himself from whimpering. Even breathing sent fire rushing through his lungs, so he tried to inhale as infrequently as possible, sucking in short little gasps that inflated his chest only slightly.

            The Hahnar turned to face him, and he realized that _he_ was a _she_. It wasn’t immediately noticeable because of the turban, but he realized that once his vision stopped wobbling, her turban was more of a headdress, beaded and colored a dark red. Parts of it fell to her shoulders and down her back. When she turned, he saw that she was wearing a matching caftan, her throat laced with jewelry.

            “Who . . .” Raheed attempted to ask, but his voice wouldn’t work very well.

            She jolted and lifted her eyes to his. They were black and tilted slightly at the corners, accented by thick curly lashes. But he wasn’t fooled. She was here to murder him.

            “Good afternoon,” she said with a slight smile and slight accent. “How are you feeling?”

            “Blrghf,” was all Raheed could manage, and she chuckled.

            “I see. Well. It’s better than how you’ve been lately.” She reached up with a wet rag and dabbed his forehead, which helped cool his melting brain.

            “You,” Raheed said slowly, hoarsely, “are a very pretty woman.”

            He immediately regretted saying that, but his mental filters weren’t running so well right now.

            Her smile faltered slightly, but she shook her head and continued dabbing has forehead. “A ‘nice to meet you’ would suffice.”

            “ ‘M sorry,” Raheed replied. “ ‘M’not feelin’ sagood.”

            “I can’t imagine you are.” She pulled her hand off his forehead and moved the rag to his neck. “You’re lucky you’re even alive.”

             “Asan,” Raheed forced out. “Where . . . Asan?”

            A light returned to the woman’s eyes, and her smile seemed genuine. “Asan is perfectly fine and taken care of. Perhaps he will come visit you tonight.”

            “Asan?” Raheed asked again, unsure of her answer.

            “Is _fine_.” She squeezed his wrist. “Worry about yourself right now.”

            Raheed turned his eyes back to the ceiling, tired of talking. However, curiosity bid him to lower his gaze again, watching the woman pick through her box of what looked like bottles and baubles.

            “What . . . your name?” Raheed asked slowly. By God, he sounded as incomprehensible as Asan right now.

            “Hmm? Oh.” The woman nodded. “My name is Leyla. I have been caring for you these past few days.”

            “But . . .” Hadn’t Dasaf killed him? Dasaf had promised, and they said that Hahnars always kept their promises. Why was he here, and how had he gotten here? Who was this woman, really? And was she telling the truth about Asan?

            “You must be very confused.”

            “Yes.”

            “You are in Khamal. You were brought here and made a prisoner.” She motioned to the walls around them, which were dark and slightly moldy. “But you cannot imprison the dead, so I was called upon to heal you.”

            “ _Why_?”

            “Because the Sumas cannot stand the sight of a heartbroken servant. Apparently your servant fought very fervently for your life.” Leyla’s expression looked affectionate. “I have met him, Asan. He is a very sweet young man. I cannot blame Dasaf for being persuaded.”

            She was either telling the truth or a very lucky liar. Raheed felt himself relax, muscle by muscle.

            “I think Dasaf has taken a shine to him, actually. Asan is taking it all very well.”

            Raheed felt a burst of pride in his chest, because even if he wasn’t directly responsible for Asan’s good behavior, Asan was still _his_ servant and _his_ friend. To see a people as fierce and unforgiving as the Hahnars take a liking to him filled Raheed with relief. At least they hadn’t harmed him. Raheed wouldn’t have come here if he’d thought they’d kill Asan. He knew well that Hahnars did not kill servants; it was well known to soldiers who had any knowledge of Hahnars.

            “I’m sure you’re still exhausted. You’d best rest.”

            “I want to . . . talk to Asan.”

            “I will bring him soon. For now I need you to sleep.”

            Raheed wanted to refuse, but he could already feel his eyelids being pulled down by invisible weights. His vision shuddered, and he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into darkness. The last thing he saw was Leyla’s face hovering over him, eyes compassionate. Despite all he knew about her people, he wasn’t afraid of her.

 

* * *

 

            When Dasaf woke the next morning, he was told a Hahnar messenger waited at the alcazar gate, wishing to speak to him.

            Wonderful.

            Dasaf dressed quickly but with purpose, as presence was everything with Hahnars beyond the mountain. One did not wear robes of gold before a Matij Hahnar, and one did not wear a plain white caftan before a Hahnar beyond the mountain. Haadi had always chosen dramatic robes during his talks with Hahnar officials, so Dasaf chose bold, powerful colors, something that would represent Khamal as a stalwart nation. He truly _hated_ it when those Hahnars beyond the mountain came sniffing, because he’d never have Haadi’s sinister presence. Dasaf excelled at parley, perhaps a few glasses of wine and a long night of laughter. The Hahnars beyond the mountain were never interested in that, as they were not interested in Khamal allies beyond its political advantages. They came to poke the tail of the rattlesnake to see if it could still strike.

            Belting several swords of various lengths to his waist, Dasaf marched out of his room and down several hallways that would take him to the receiving room, where any guest would be taken out of the hot sun and given water and fruit. It was there that the Hahnar sat, dressed in the shimmering finery of an official. It was impractical to cross the desert in such garb, but the Hahnars weren’t so superficial as they were determined to communicate a message. Silk and gold spoke of wealth, power, _immunity_. They wanted to remind Khamal that it was just a speck on the window of opportunity. The Hahnars could defeat entire Mulli armies, and they could surely destroy Khamal if they fancied doing so.

            The Hahnar saw Dasaf enter the room and stood, bowing in respect. Dasaf did the same, and they sat across from one another on the low-set sofa in the receiving room.

            “It has been a long time since we have come to see you,” said the Hahnar. “My name is Jamal. I come on behalf of the king.”

            “And what is it that the king wishes to discuss? I always hope he comes wishing to tell me jokes and sell me wine, but he disappoints me in that regard.”

            Jamal chuckled as he took a sip of tea. “Unfortunately, it is war that brings me here.”

            “I would think so.”  
            “You know of the Mulli camp stationed just at the foot of our mountains.”

            “Yes.”

            “Then you know of what we face. Every time we destroy them, we all hope that perhaps they won’t come back. But they are a pestilence, and it seems that whomever we kill merely multiplies into three more. This is something larger than we’ve ever faced, and Mulli is not going to leave us alone until we obliterate them.”

            “Which means?”

            “Which means that we are conjuring an army of our own. If they will not leave us be, then we will take the battle to them. See how they like it.”

            This was grave news indeed, and Dasaf struggled to keep his expression level. What always got him through these discussions were memories of his brother and that statuesque face that never faltered. Even when they’d received news of their parents’ death, Haadi never blinked, never shed a single tear. Dasaf tried to summon what resolve he could.

            “You are planning to invade the Mullis?”

            “It is in the process. We must have the forces to both protect our own and march on Mulli territory, which will require both numbers and funds.”

            “Ah. I see.”

            “Perhaps you do not. I know that the relations between my people and yours are fragile, and I know that you here at Khamal would prefer to keep your hands clean of our politics. Yet you know that if the Mulli somehow take us, you will have no legs to stand on. They will crush your walls. They will kill your men and rape your women, and they will enslave your children. Without Hahnar support, you are a vulnerable island in a sea of Mullis.”

            “What is it you want from us then?”

            Jamal smiled slowly. Dasaf found it slimy, secretive. This Hahnar knew his way around diplomacy.

            “This Mulli army is but a week from your walls. I hear rumors that they are planning an attack. But an attack of twenty thousand on your walls guarantees defeat. Khamal _will_ fall, there is no doubt. Your reputation as fearless warriors has served you well, but even Mullis will not heed it when they outnumber you three to one. What I come offering is _protection_ from these Mulli dogs.”

            “Protection that costs what?”

            “You are a shrewd man.” Jamal nodded. “Just like your brother, eh? I met him several times before his demise. He was everything a Khamal Sumas should be, wasn’t he? It was men like him that made Khamal legend, made enemies quiver at the thought of climbing these walls.” Jamal shook his head. “But he was a man, was he not?”

            “Tell me what I shall pay you for Hahnar protection,” Dasaf said through gritted teeth. He needed no reminders of Haadi’s excellence as Sumas, or how he had died despite of it.

            “We would like to station our troops here. You swear allegiance to our king, give our men food and water and shelter, and in return, if you should find Mulli troops at your gates, we will cut them down like twigs. Your women and children will be safe. They will live to tell the tall tales of how the mighty Sumas brought peace and prosperity to their beloved city.”

            “Allegiance?”

            Jamal waved a hand dismissively. “A formality. You would still remain Sumas and retain all of your current power. You may not have jurisdiction over the Hahnar troops, but that’s not asking for much.”

            “Would I have to ride beyond the mountain to do this?”

            “It would be preferred, yes. The king is very curious about you, having never seen you. He did meet your brother when he was but a boy. He wants to meet you and your nephew, the future Sumas.”

            “There is not a chance on God’s earth that I will take my nephew beyond the mountain to bow at the feet of a Hahnar king. I may be able to swallow my dignity, but Darim is the son of Darim Haadi and grandson of Darim Zhad, men who never bowed before anyone save their Khamal elders and wise women.”

            “Ah. Of course. I am familiar with Khamal pride. May I remind you that it saved neither your father nor your brother?”

            Haadi might have cut the man’s throat for that. Dasaf just clenched his fists and forced a pleasant smile. “They may be dead, but their memory is unspoiled by Hahnar bondage.”  
            “Please, Sumas. I came here thinking that perhaps you would be reasonable about this. Are you truly willing to sacrifice the safety of your _people_ to save your family’s _reputation_? You may be free of Hahnar bondage, but you will be shackled by selfishness and ego. I hope you care for your subjects more than that.”

            As much as Dasaf loathed to admit it, the man had a point. Haadi and Zhad’s reputation as men who apologized for no one did nothing to better the lives of their people. All it did was give something old men to brag about in the marketplace. If Dasaf agreed to this, he’d be seen as a shameful coward. But his city would be awarded much-needed Hahnar protection, and at least his people would be alive to hate him. The thought of being despised was unpleasant, but the idea of Mullis slaughtering those he loved was unbearable.

            “May I be granted some time to think it over?” Dasaf asked finally.

            “Of course. I will stay however long it takes for you to come to a decision. It has been a long time since we have had a relationship with Khamal. It would bring great prosperity to collaborate once more. We were once brothers, no? Let us be brothers again to defeat our common enemy.”

            “I may consider allegiance, but I do not think we will ever be brothers.” With a sigh, Dasaf stood. “Please. A servant will show you to your room and make sure you are fed and cared for.”

            Jamal looked disappointed, but bowed his head. “Thank you, Sumas.”

            Jamal was led away by a servant, and Dasaf collapsed back onto the sofa, running a hand over his face. When he pulled it away, he noticed Shallaf crossing the plaza and headed for the receiving room. Lovely. Just what Dasaf needed.

            “You should have called me immediately,” Shallaf snapped once he was within hearing range.

            “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

            “This is extremely delicate diplomacy! What did he want?”

            Dasaf groaned and wished Shallaf would save this argument for later. He was already wracked with indecision and guilt, and Shallaf only ever seemed to make it worse. Dasaf appreciated Shallaf’s wisdom, especially since Shallaf had been Haadi’s advisor before Dasaf’s. But lately it felt less like wisdom and more like lecturing.   
            “He wants me to swear allegiance to the Hahnar king in return for protection.”

            “What?! That’s preposterous! You would never—”

            “I’m going to my room,” Dasaf muttered, standing once more. “Where I am going to think about things.”

            “You’re _considering_ this?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Dasaf.” Shallaf stood in front of him, expression fierce as he lowered his voice. “This is _madness_. A Sumas would never swear allegiance to a Hahnar king. It’s unthinkable.”

            “So perhaps you have a plan to fend off the Mullis that will certainly arrive at our gates?”

            “We fight, of course.”

            “And we’d lose. Maybe it’s worth it to you. Maybe when you stand in a ring of your dead brethren, you can take comfort in the fact that you stood your ground and refused to bow to man in a silly hat beyond the mountain. Let that knowledge soothe you as you’re shackled and imprisoned, serenaded at night by the screams of Khamal women being violated.” Dasaf took two steps forward, putting his nose about an inch from Shallaf’s. “My brother refused to bow. Where is he now?”

            At that, Dasaf slipped past Shallaf, heading for the hallway into the Keep. For now he needed silence and a strong drink


	10. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter's song selection.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0v0_mc44Gk)

 

            The next time Asan was blindfolded, he didn’t mind. It meant getting to see Raheed, and Fasa had told him that Raheed was awake and coherent. Such news filled Asan with enough joy that he submitted to blindfolding as if it were a mere inconvenience. When the scarf around his eyes was untied, he could barely keep himself from charging through the heavy wooden door blocking his way. A man unlocked the padlock and let Asan push his way into the room.

            Raheed was sitting up, still pale and weak but awake. His eyes turned to Asan upon their entrance, and a smile crawled across his colorless mouth. Asan let out a cry of elation before throwing himself on Raheed, mindful of Raheed’s wounds but still smothering. He pressed a firm kiss to Raheed’s cheek before pulling back with a grin so wide it hurt his face. Raheed’s eyes were squinted with delight, even though he looked too infirm to demonstrate similar enthusiasm.

            Only after pulling away did Asan notice Leyla seated at Raheed’s side, cleaning the blood from a few rags. She looked upon the scene with a smile, and Asan curbed the desire to embrace her as well. If not for her, Raheed wouldn’t be here.

            Asan hugged Raheed again, whose body vibrated with a laugh. Gently he took Asan’s arms and pushed him back, though Asan could have easily shrugged him off if he’d wanted to, something he’d never been able to attempt before. Raheed’s weakness was so foreign to him that he couldn’t help but be worried. 

            “You look well,” Raheed said.

            Asan nodded. _I have been treated well. Look!_ Asan pulled at the collar of his caftan. It was such a relief to sign again; speaking was so tiring and frustrating. _They gave me this to wear. Isn’t it nice?_

Raheed’s eyes dropped to Asan’s caftan before flickering back up. “Where are they keeping you?”

            _A room in the house. They call it . . ._ Asan paused, then sounded out, “alcazar.”

            “How gracious.”

            Asan searched for Leyla, but she had left the room, granting them brief privacy. He was glad for it.

            Raheed’s bright expression dimmed, and he reached up to push some of Asan’s hair behind his ear. The gesture set Asan’s face on fire, so he ducked his head to hide it.

            “I nearly lost you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

            Asan couldn’t decide upon a shake of his head or a shrug of his shoulders, so he did both. Raheed was so rarely affectionate lately that he felt overwhelmed by such a confession.

            _It’s okay_. Asan shifted at Raheed’s side, trying to return blood flow to his legs. _I’m safe now_.

            Raheed’s eyes darted to the door, which was left open. Asan knew Leyla and a guard were standing in the hallway, but he entertained the idea of dragging Raheed out of this cell. Where would they go? Back to the Mulli army? For now, Khamal was the best place for them.

            _Leyla has been kind to me_ , Asan added, noticing the direction of Raheed’s gaze.

            “Me as well.”

            _So far the Hahnars have been good to us._

“Leyla said you kept Dasaf from killing me.”

            Asan nodded, once again avoiding Raheed’s gaze. _I didn’t think. I just acted_.

            “What did you do?”

            _I fought him. I begged. I was stupid, but I don’t regret it because everyone thought you’d die but you didn’t._ Asan reached out and squeezed Raheed’s hand, fighting a smile. _You must have wanted to live_.

            “I don’t know why. I had given up by the time the Sumas found me in that cave.” Raheed closed his eyes, and Asan wanted to seep up the sorrow in his expression. “But thank you, Asan. I owe you my life.”

            Asan grinned. _By now, we have saved each other_.

            Raheed nodded, but Asan could tell that he was already weakening from this conversation. So he hopped up to pour Raheed another glass of water, then fluffed Raheed’s pillows and smoothed the tangled sheets keeping him warm. Asan would have done anything to lie on that mat by Raheed and fall to sleep alongside him, but Leyla had already returned, expecting him to leave Raheed to sleep.

            “I’ll still be here tomorrow,” Raheed told Asan, noticing Asan’s hesitation. “I will be stronger, and we can talk longer.”

            Asan picked up Raheed’s hand and kissed his knuckles. He watched as Raheed’s eyelids fluttered and then closed, and he didn’t leave Raheed’s side until Leyla touched his shoulder.

            “He’s doing well,” Leyla said to Asan. “You can see him tomorrow.”

            Asan nodded and stood, hiding his face in fear that she could see the glitter of tears in their corners. He wanted to embrace her for saving the most important thing to him, but he wasn’t sure if she’d appreciate it. So he bowed his head and signed _thank you_ several times with great emphasis.

            Leyla seemed to understand, as she bowed her head as well. Gently, she took Asan’s arm and steered him toward the door.

            “I’ll watch over him,” she said. “Don’t fear.”

            But Asan did.

 

* * *

 

            Asan ducked out of the way as Shallaf headed down the corridor toward him. Luckily the advisor paid Asan no more than a wary glance as he passed. Asan had feared he might be cruel like Uthal or Yussam, but he seemed mostly aloof. It was difficult to see why he and the Sumas would be drawn to each other, considering their vastly different personalities. Shallaf seemed much older too, though Asan didn’t know the age of either man.

            Asan was eager to take another dip in the bathhouse, so he scurried to his room and grabbed whatever supplies he needed. Unfortunately, he got a little lost on his way there and ended up in a vast courtyard that he didn’t recognize. He saw the Sumas just before the Sumas saw him, so Asan ducked behind a bush. Asan wasn’t sure why he hid. He wasn’t trespassing, at least not to his knowledge. But after watching people from behind curtains and doors for so long, it seemed natural to observe instead of interact. So he was happy to peer through the branches at the Sumas, even though he scolded himself for spying yet again. At least Shallaf wasn’t here this time. The Sumas was alone, practicing with what looked like daggers. There was a thick wooden post several strides away, and on it were drawn several circles—targets. The Sumas was attempting—and succeeding—to hit them with his weapons. Asan had briefly forgotten that Dasaf was both a warrior and a leader, but he remembered now. He had been so easily defeated in his brief scuffle with Dasaf, an outcome that could be easily determined judging by the skill with which he wielded his daggers. His accuracy was deadly.

            Asan told himself he was admiring Dasaf’s ability, but he was really ogling Dasaf, because he’d removed his caftan and stood only in his loose trousers, belted high at the waist and tied off around mid-calf. Sweat glittered along powerful shoulders, and Asan stuffed fingers in his mouth in fear he might whimper with appreciation.

            When he ran out of daggers, Dasaf crossed the clearing and removed the blades from deep within the wood. His eyes fell on the path that Asan had just vacated, and Asan quickly saw why. Messenger had found him and was now darting across the courtyard, barking and heading straight for Asan.

            _No_! Asan signed violently at an approaching Messenger, but Messenger ignored him and dove behind the bush that currently shielded Asan. Nudging the dog aside, Asan guiltily slunk from his hiding place.

            Asan had been expecting the usual smile or laugh, but Dasaf’s face was eerily blank for a moment. Asan noticed that he wasn’t wearing any turban either, so his shaved head looked dwarfish in comparison to his full beard.

            “What are you doing here?” he asked, and since Asan hadn’t an expression to gauge Dasaf’s mood, he reacted as if Dasaf had asked angrily.

            “Lost!” Asan blurted, signing in his panic. “Wanted . . . bathhouse.”

            Dasaf continued to gape at him for a few seconds before lifting a hand and pointing in the opposite direction. Asan looked behind him, as if that would help at all. He nodded and moved to leave. He was stopped when he caught Dasaf’s “Wait,” out of the corner of his eye.

            Asan stopped, frozen and afraid.

            “I am not . . .” Dasaf sighed and grabbed a nearby towel to wipe the perspiration that dribbled down his face. It provided a certain sheen to him that made it hard not to stare. “I am not angry with you. I am just . . .” He looked away, jaw set. “Sometimes it is easier to fight what is outside of me as opposed to what lies within.”

            Asan didn’t understand, but he nodded anyway.

            “Though I do wonder what you’ve been doing behind a bush.”

            Asan blushed, knowing he didn’t have the language skills to make excuses for himself. So he merely said, “Only afraid.”

            “Of me?”

            “Of being seen.”

            “Why would you be afraid of that?” Dasaf reached down and took a rather large gulp from a leather pouch of water.

            “I am servant. Invisible.”

            “To whom? Certainly not to me.” Dasaf smiled now, and only then did Asan feel himself relax. Dasaf sometimes made it easy to forget that he was a Hahnar, enemy of Mulli, but when he fought it was rather clear how Hahnars remained where others had fallen.

            Dasaf crossed the courtyard to stand just a few paces from Asan. “Do you know how to throw these?” He held out a dagger, one of the nicest Asan had ever seen. The hilt had such intricate engravings, gilded with gold. Asan wouldn’t even be allowed to clean such a thing, let alone use one.

            Asan shook his head. “Servant, not soldier.”

            “Even Khamal women and children know how to protect themselves. They know what is at stake if they do not.”

            “I do not know.”

            “Maybe I will teach you. Take this for a moment.”

            Asan gently took the dagger from Dasaf, startled by the weight. It was slightly damp and warm from Dasaf’s grip, but it was neither too small nor too heavy for Asan’s hand. He thought that maybe he would understand its allure once he held it, but all he wanted to do with it was perhaps admire its craftsmanship. This was only used to kill, and Asan had no interest in that.

            “I can give you one,” Dasaf said. “Not that one, but another one.”

            “You give . . . prisoner dagger?” Asan asked, raising his eyebrows.

            Dasaf laughed. “Prisoner? I told you, you are a _guest_. I suppose if you wanted to stab me with it, I may let you try, just for practice.” At this he winked. He must not consider Asan a credible threat, and why would he? Asan saw how he fought, and even if Asan hated this man, he couldn’t kill him. Asan hadn’t the heart for it.

            “Not fighter,” Asan finally said, handing the dagger back. “Servant. I serve.”

            Dasaf took the dagger, sliding it between the straps of the fabric belting his waist. Asan eyes darted down to Dasaf’s chest before he forced them upwards. Dasaf’s well-muscled torso was certainly . . . distracting.

            “I’m sure you must be bored, wandering around this house all day. Would you like to be a servant here? You could keep your room and make use of my alcazar as you wished.”

            Asan wanted to be useful, so he nodded. He hadn’t seen many servants, but none of them looked particularly burdened. Perhaps Raheed might have balked at the thought, but Asan felt at home when he was working.

            “Good! I will let Zheera know. She runs this place, and while I believe her strict, I think she is fair.”

            Asan was used to that. He wondered if she was an elderly woman, perhaps one similar to Elder Hassad. Asan still greatly missed his mentor and teacher.

            “As for those bathhouses . . . I can take you to them. I don’t know how you managed to end up here, but I’ll see what I can do.”

            Asan nodded as Dasaf grabbed his caftan and tossed it on over his head. Asan couldn’t help but feel a touch of disappointment, though he hid it well.

            They headed out of the courtyard and into an adjacent veranda when a figure in a long green robe approached them, her stride long and purposeful. She paused when she caught sight of Asan, though she continued after a brief hesitation.

            “Malika,” Dasaf greeted. He gestured toward Asan. “This is Asan. Asan, this is the Khamal’s _Suman_ , Malika. My sister-in-law.”

            Malika gave Asan only a strained smile before returning her gaze to Dasaf, expression hardening as she did so. She had the same eyes and nose as Leyla perhaps, but her lips were thinner and her cheekbones wider, making her the plainer of the two. However, there was an authoritative air to her that neither Dasaf nor Leyla carried, and Asan felt an immediate respect for her, sour as she might appear.

            They began to speak in Hahnar or whatever language it was that those from Khamal spoke in. Judging by their expressions, neither was terribly happy with the other. Malika’s fierceness reminded Asan a bit of Fasa, though Fasa was wild where Malika was controlled. She was a very convincing queen, even in her mannerisms and dress. Dasaf looked cowed by whatever she said, eventually nodding his head in agreement. With a curt nod of forced politeness at Asan, she passed by both of them and continued down the veranda.

            “I love her,” Dasaf said as both he and Asan began walking again, “but she does not always make it easy. I sometimes think the women of my family have been sent by God to test my patience.” He smiled at Asan, who both shrugged and nodded. He hadn’t any experience with women until Fasa, so he was no expert.

            “It could be worse,” Dasaf continued. “I could be stuck with the _men_ of my family.”

            “You only one?” Asan asked.

            “Well, there’s Altaf of course.” Dasaf pointed to his beard. “A full beard signifies the eldest male in an immediate family. It has none of those silly status implications that your Mullis have created, though of course the eldest male always has authority over his family. But there is no shame in being the youngest like there is in being a servant for the Mullis.”

            “I grow beard then,” Asan said with a smile. “I am oldest.”

            “Do you have a family?”

            Asan shook his head, and Dasaf nodded. “I believe that was what Mulli told me, so many years ago.”

            “What Raheed say?”

            “I asked him for a reason to spare his life. He told me about you.” At this, Dasaf’s eyes crinkled in the corners, a gentleness leaking into his formerly sober expression. “How he knew I had such a weakness for sweet tales, I do not know. I assumed he made the whole thing up, considering his previous lies. You want to know what he told me when I tried to kill his friend? That they were _jusefs_!” Dasaf snorted, though Asan’s heart thudded against his rib cage. He thought for a moment that he was seeing a foreign word on Dasaf’s lips, but it looked so much like what he’d whisper to himself as he scoured the text of his Hahnar book. “Of course, I’m not an idiot. I didn’t—”

            “Jusefs,” Asan attempted to say, not sure of his success. It did give Dasaf pause, so Asan continued. “What are?”

            “ _Jusefs_? Ah. Well. I’m sure you won’t like the answer. Mullis are very sensitive about these things.”

            Asan shook his head frantically, watching Dasaf with enough intensity to ensure he didn’t miss a word.

            Dasaf stared at Asan a moment, then continued. “It is rare these days. It has been some time since anyone in Khamal has gone to war. But when away from home and surrounded by death, men tend to go mad. _Jusefs_ are two men bonded so that they may receive and enjoy intimacy and support that keeps them whole. Most of the time it is not particularly . . . lascivious in nature, but sometimes it is. Then when war is over and the men return home, the bond is broken and they return to their wives or plan to marry.”

            His explanation was much more hopeful than Fasa’s, but Asan still felt dissatisfied. He didn’t _want_ to marry a woman. He’d thought previously that perhaps it was because he knew so few women, but Raheed didn’t seem to have a problem seeking them out and finding excuses to interact with them. Asan liked Fasa and, recently, Leyla, but he was not compelled to touch them. They did not entice him, nor did he find it difficult to keep himself from staring. Dasaf and Raheed were different matters entirely.

            “I told you that you would be sensitive,” Dasaf said.

            Asan shook his head again, frustrated that he was being misinterpreted. How he wished he could talk like he could with Raheed! He hated having to communicate through speech, especially when he was passionate. Whenever he grew agitated, his voice slurred everything together and no one could understand him. It took great concentration to form sounds he could not hear, and he hadn’t the patience for it now.

            “I read about _jusefs_ ,” Asan said, signing as well as speaking, as his hands refused to stay still. “Not sensitive, _curious_.”

            “Hmm, you and Raheed must have read the same book then.” Dasaf chuckled. “It is practiced much more commonly with the Hahnars beyond the mountain. Male companionship is very normal for them, often so much that men will flirt with other men and think nothing of that. They will even keep male slaves to entertain them and drink with them and, occasionally, pleasure them. In Khamal, well . . . we are very focused on family here, and that involves marriage.” His easy smile slipped away as he frowned. “Unfortunately.”

            “You know anyone?” Asan continued. “Any _jusefs_?”

            “No, of course not. We haven’t been to war for generations. Not _real_ war, just a few skirmishes here and there, and they didn’t require leaving the city for it.”

            Asan wanted to say something about Dasaf’s late-night tryst with his advisor, but Asan knew he might get thrown out of the city for such an infraction, so he forced his mouth shut. It was hard, considering all the questions he wanted to ask.

            “Why not get married?” Asan finally asked, figuring it was vaguely related to what he really wanted to ask.

            Dasaf sighed. “And subject a woman to me every day and night? I like women too much for that, Asan.” At this, he gave Asan a joking grin, and Asan knew it was only a diversion from the real answer. “Plus I snore terribly. My wife would leave me by the end of the week.”

            _I don’t want to get married either_ , Asan said with his hands, because there was no easy way to say it. “No marriage for me.”

            “Why not?”

            “Servant.”

            “Ah, that’s right. Those awful Mulli laws. Well. Here you can get married to whomever you like, if she’ll have you.”

            Asan sighed and bowed his head, wanting to confess his true feelings to Dasaf _so badly_ but afraid to do so. Dasaf was not his friend. Technically, he was his _captor_. If Asan were to tell anyone, it must be Raheed. But Raheed wouldn’t _understand_ , and Asan had seen Dasaf kiss his advisor. He might be the only man who could comprehend Asan’s situation.

            “Don’t look so thrilled,” Dasaf said, nudging Asan with an elbow.

            Asan shook his head, too tired and frustrated to explain. Hadn’t Dasaf just seen him spying on him through the branches of a bush? Couldn’t he _see_? Asan wished Dasaf would just _guess_ so Asan wouldn’t have to tell him.

            “Raheed want marriage,” Asan said eventually.

            “He’s entitled to it. To a Mulli girl.” Dasaf’s face hardened. “Or a donkey. Or a particularly alluring tree. But if he touches any Khamal woman, I’ll take off both of his hands.”

            Asan started. “No! Raheed not . . . not bad.”

            “I am not naïve. I know what Mulli soldiers think of Hahnar women. Fasa has confirmed it.”

            “Raheed good to Fasa!”

            “Fasa is not entirely Hahnar either. No.” He stopped and turned to Asan, expression intense. It was as if he were a different man, the hardened warrior that Asan had tackled in the desert. “I have already extended many courtesies to your soldier, but once he is well he will leave, and that is the end of it. Leyla has volunteered to care for him, but if he so much as—” The corners of Dasaf’s mouth twitched downward, and for the first time in several days, Asan feared him. “If he touches her, things will most definitely end badly for him.” He must have seen Asan’s expression, because he softened, if only minutely. “My fear is not unfounded, Asan. My parents were killed by Mullis, their bodies never recovered. One guard escaped to tell us of their demise, and . . . well, I will not ruin your appetite, but they did not simply _kill_ my mother like they did my father.”

            Asan wanted to protest further because of course Raheed was not like that, but Dasaf looked more upset than angry now, so Asan let it go.

            “Sometime I will tell you all about her,” Dasaf continued, a clear attempt to move to a sunnier topic. “My mother was a wonderful woman. She told jokes that even the Matij found amusing. They are notoriously lacking in humor, so it was quite a feat. I wish you could have met her. She was referred to by many as the Light of the Alcazar, and she kept this house warm for years.”

            Unfortunately their walk came to an end. Asan wanted to talk longer, as Dasaf did not treat him with arrogance or pity, nor did he wield much authority even though he could. It was like being with Raheed back before Raheed became captain and changed into a drunken brute.

            “Before you go . . .” Dasaf took Asan’s arm, and Asan’s skin prickled at the contact. He met Dasaf’s gaze tentatively, afraid he’d reveal too much. “Remember me asking if I could learn some of your hand language? I would very much like lessons, whenever you can spare the time. I love learning new tongues, and this one is very exciting to see.”

            Asan stared at Dasaf a moment, overwhelmed by the offer. This was a man who had saved a soldier he hated because Asan had begged him, who put Asan in a room and clothed him, fed him, allowed him access to his home and family. Now he wanted to learn Asan’s language? Asan didn’t even know what to make of him. He’d never met someone so accommodating, nor anyone so confusing. He didn’t know why Dasaf was being so kind, and secretly he hoped it was because Dasaf felt something for Asan he might not feel for anyone else . . .

            Asan nodded, so Dasaf released his arm and stepped away with a hearty wave. Asan watched Dasaf as he walked away, trying to tear apart the muddled mess of emotions in his chest and failing. With a sigh, he pulled back the bathhouse door and stepped inside.

           

* * *

 

            For once, Raheed’s dreams were not filled with bloodshed and terror. Instead, he was resting in a grassy field, the sun warm but mild. Nearby he heard the crash of waves and he knew he was somewhere by the sea. In the distance, he saw a figure in red, hips swaying as she walked. He sat up and waited for her arrival, chest clenched with joy and desire.

            “Malli,” he whispered, and she smiled as she sat at his side. She pushed some hair from his forehead and kissed him. Then, without saying a word, she began to tug at his caftan, pulling it aside so she could run her hands down his chest. He leaned forward and rested his face against her neck, happy to be passive under her tender ministrations. He felt a stirring in his groin, and he shifted in hopes that she might notice.

            When her hands slid lower, a sudden freezing breeze whipped by them, and Raheed winced. Once more it happened, and he snatched up her hands.

            “What are you doing?” he asked, searching her eyes.

            She said nothing, only pulled her fingers from between his and dropped them again, running along his abdomen. Before he could stop her, he was jerked from the dream like a fish yanked from water.

            “ _Owww_ ,” Raheed whined, eyes fluttering open. What the dream had interpreted as a cold breeze was in fact pain. His hand moved to clutch it but stopped when it bumped into something else. Another hand.

            He wrenched his eyes open. Leyla was seated beside him, a long purple veil draped over her head and around her neck. The flickering of a nearby lamp was reflected in the high points of her cheeks, nose and forehead, and for a moment Raheed thought she was coming to him in another dream.

            “What are you doing?” Raheed gasped.

            “Changing your bandage.”

            “It hurts.”

            “Proof that you’re still alive, then.”

            He winced when she continued peeling the bloody bandage from his wound, clenching his fists so that they wouldn’t grab her wrists and shove her away. When the cloth was removed, Leyla turned and dropped it into a bucket of water, then washed her hands as well.

            “Do you enjoy doing that?” Raheed asked weakly.

            “Hmm?”

            “Hurting me?”

            Leyla stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t enjoy anyone’s pain.”        

            “You must a little. I am Mulli, after all.”

            Leyla was silent as she washed the bloody cloth in the bucket, the sounds of sloshing water filling the room. Finally she flicked her hands dry and began unfolding a fresh bandage resting in her lap. “Can you try sitting up for me?”

            Raheed did his best, and the sheet that covered him dropped to his hips. Glancing down at his now bare wound, he winced. He’d seen worse on the battle field—intestines sliding out of stomachs like worms, brains splattered across stones, missing limbs—but considering it was his own body made it less than savory.

            It took him a moment to realize he was completely naked. Of course he’d been completely naked around women before, but never a woman who wasn’t a whore, and especially not a Hahnar. He felt himself flush as Leyla reached toward him with a wet cloth.

            “Is your husband okay with this?” Raheed asked, which gave her pause.

            “What?”

            “Tending to naked Mulli men?”

            She looked amused a second, then sat back. “How do you know I’m married?”

            “Are you? I assumed you would be. You’re of age, and . . . well. You’re of age.”

            Leyla said nothing, only gave him a coy look before dabbing at his wound with a wet cloth. Raheed hissed but was able to remain still if he clenched the sheet covering him with both fists. Any tensing of his abdomen seemed to make it worse, but the alternative was sobbing.

            “So are you?” Raheed exhaled as she pulled away.

            “Am I what?” She didn’t look at him.

            “Married.”

            “Why is it any of your concern?”

            “I don’t know. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

            “Ah. _Curious_ , I see.”

            “I’m not—I’m not _trying_ anything.”

            “Mhm.” She reached forward again, once more administering to his wound, this time with more forceful strokes. He winced and let out a low whine of pain. Raheed had to catch his breath when she retracted her hand.

            “I’m sure there are stereotypes about Mulli men.”

            She snorted. “Do you think so?”

            “Especially in regards to Hahnar women.”

            “You must be feeling rather well, to talk so much.” She put her hands on her hips and lifted her eyebrows.

            “I had a nice dream,” Raheed said, which wasn’t exactly what he had planned on saying but he couldn’t take it back once it was said. “It gave me some energy.”

            “What kind of dream?”

            “Oh, just a nice one. You weren’t in it, so don’t worry.”

            “Why would I think I’d be in your dream?”

            “I—I don’t know.” This wasn’t going nearly as well as he thought it might. “I’m sorry.”

            “For what?”

            “For being such an idiot right now.”

            She laughed, and Raheed wasn’t sure if he’d heard a laugh so lovely in his life. It wasn’t his fault that he had a weakness for beautiful women, even Hahnar ones. It was a weakness most men shared.

            “That’s okay,” she said. “You meet my expectations.”

            “That’s not very nice.”

            “You are a prisoner here. Should I be nice?”

            Raheed sighed and slumped back against the mountain of pillows holding him aloft. Maybe he should just stop talking, or try again when Asan was around. He seemed to have endeared these Hahnars to him quite easily.

            There was a long silence, and Raheed might have drifted back to sleep had Leyla not finally spoken again.

            “Who is Malli?” she asked.

            Raheed started, then lifted his head to face her. “What?”  
            “Malli. Who is she?”

            “How do you know about her?”

            “When you first arrived, you called me by that name.”

            “I was delusional.”

            “Yes, but I’m sure you must know a woman by that name.”

            The pain Raheed felt now was not so much from his wound. “I don’t have to tell you.”

            “If you tell me, I’ll tell you whether or not I am married.”

            Raheed couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “You really want to know that badly?”  
            “I’m curious.”

            “She was . . .” Raheed felt his smile falter, felt his chest tighten as he remembered his dream. It was like so many before it. No matter what he did, he could never convince her to stay. “She was a woman I loved.”

            “I thought Mulli soldiers weren’t allowed to marry.”

            “I wasn’t married to her.”

            “Ah. Was she—” Leyla cut herself off, then shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t ask.”

            “Was she a whore?”

            Leyla winced, then nodded with some hesitation.

            “Yes.”

            “I assumed so. Mulli soldiers have a reputation.”

            “In the Mulli army, it’s either whores or a life of celibacy.”

            “Or raping Hahnar women.”

            Raheed frowned. “I’ve never so much as _seen_ a Hahnar woman before you. And Fasa.”

            Leyla sighed and dropped her wet cloth into the bucket. She moved to her small chest of remedies and began to stir an herb mixture that was not particularly fragrant.

            “I’ve never touched a woman who refused me,” Raheed told her.

            “I believe you.”

            “You do?”

            “Yes.” Leyla met his gaze. “Fasa had already assured me that you made no advances.”

            “For the most part, the only thing I’ve done to Hahnar women is ask if they’re married.” At this, Raheed couldn’t help but grin. “So? Are you?”

            She shook her head, trying to fight a smile. “I don’t see why it matters.”

            “You said you’d tell me.”

            Leyla scooped up some of the herbal mixture with a wooden spoon and plopped it on Raheed’s stomach. He flinched as she used two fingers to spread it along the laceration.

            “No,” Leyla finally answered, eyes cast downward. “I’m not married.”

            Raheed felt a thrill at hearing it, though of course it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he had a chance. Besides, he’d written off women since his misstep with Malli. He wasn’t sure he could trust one again.

            “May I ask why not?”

            “No.”

            “What is your connection to Dasaf?”

            “My sister was married to his late brother, Darim Haadi.”

            Raheed couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He did wonder why someone as beautiful and seemingly sound of mind as Leyla wouldn’t be married, especially since her sister had enough connections to be married to a Sumas. All he could think was that maybe she wasn’t a virgin. He knew that in Ayllamal, only virgins were allowed to marry. But the Hahnars might be different.

            “Asan,” Raheed said, jerking himself away from such thoughts. It was best not to think of this woman in that manner. “I want to see him.”

            “I shall see what I can do.”

            “He seemed to be doing well when we spoke.”

            “Yes. Dasaf considers him a guest and treats him like one.”

            Raheed might have been bitter over the preferential treatment, but he was only glad that Asan was safe and cared for.

            “Your Sumas is not as fierce as a Khamal reputation would boast.”

            “You are lucky then that you did not trespass when Darim Haadi ruled. He would have mounted your head on the wall as a warning to others.”

            “Would you have preferred that?”

            “No.” She washed her hand and then pressed a cool hand against his shoulder. “You will have to sit up so that I may wrap your wound.”

            Raheed did so, though he let out a low groan of pain at the effort. His mind was clearer, but he still felt like his head had been attached to the body of a dead horse. Arms trembling, Raheed held himself aloft long enough for Leyla to wrap a long white piece of cloth around his torso, holding several thick pieces of wool to his torn flesh. He tried to ignore the sensation of her fingers on his skin, but he hadn’t seen a woman outside of Fasa in a very long time, let alone suffered the touch of one. He watched the skin on Leyla’s wrists emerge from their sleeves, transfixed by the movement of bones in her skilled hands. Her skin looked smooth, especially that of her palms, where her complexion was lighter.

            She finally tied off the bandage and moved away, turning back to her chest of remedies. Raheed collapsed against his small mountain of pillows, exhausted by that short moment of exertion. He had been feeling rather well, considering the state he’d been in. Now he thought himself rather pathetic. It was made an even bigger shame by Leyla’s presence. Most women he met—well, the whores at least—were impressed by his strength and prowess. He couldn’t think of any ways to appear as anything other than an infirm Mulli moron.

            “Am I going to be a prisoner here forever?” Raheed finally asked. “Or will they kill me?”

            “I don’t think Dasaf plans on killing you. If he wanted you dead, he would have left you out in the desert to die on your own.”

            “He said he would kill me, years ago.”

            “Dasaf hasn’t much of a heart for murder.”

            “He is a Khamal Hahnar. I thought . . .”

            “Yes, many think us barbaric. They might not be wrong. But Dasaf is not the man his predecessors were, no matter what image he portrays.” At this, a small smile fell across her lips. But then it faded, and she sighed. “I don’t know what Dasaf plans on doing with you. You are lucky that you have your own protector and that Dasaf appears to like him.”

            Raheed didn’t know whether to be surprised about that. Asan was a good person, of course, one of the most kind-hearted and pure people Raheed had ever encountered. But Asan was also rather gauche, preferring a lonely dark room to a crowd. Raheed would have to ask him how he’d managed to capture the Sumas’s ear.

            Leyla began to pack up her supplies. Terrified of the pitch darkness that would follow her departure, Raheed struggled to find a way to make her stay.

            “Do you have anything to help me sleep?” Raheed asked.

            “I have some milk of poppy, yes.”

            “Perhaps I can have some of that.”

            She eyed him cautiously, but then nodded and poured him a small teacup-full from whatever vial she had in her medicine chest. The muscles in his face tightened at the taste, but he knew it would help keep his sleep long and dreamless.

            “Thank you.”

            She took the cup back and packed it away.

            “Is it possible to leave the torch?”

            “It will wane eventually.”

            “I know, but . . .” Raheed’s eyes flickered about the room. “It’s terrifying without it.”

            She stared at him a moment, the nodded. “I can do this for you.”

            “Thank you, again.”

            Leyla turned away, biting her lip. Then she slipped out of the room, leaving Raheed the flickering light of the torch, the only thing protecting him from the encroaching shadows. 


	11. Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter's song selection](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWF07EoESFk)

 

            “There you are. I thought you’d never come. I could only hope you’d arrive before my funeral ended.”

            Dasaf sighed and crossed the courtyard to where his grandmother Rabida sat beneath a tree, peeling the skin off an orange. Her head was covered by a bright pink scarf, her tiny body dwarfed by the sheer size of her embroidered caftan. Physically, she was less fearsome than a kitten. But when she lifted her gaze to Dasaf’s, he couldn’t help but feel as he once did as a toddler, that he’d done something very wrong and would spend the rest of the day in his room paying for it.

            “Good evening, Honored Grandmother.”

            “Pah.” She waved him away dismissively and then pointed to the ground. “Sit. I want to talk to you, and the sun’s in my eyes when you stand over me like that.”

            Dasaf crouched beside her, folding up his legs and reaching out to pluck a twig growing from the hard earth beneath him.

            “So Shallaf and Malika have informed me that we have a Hahnar in our midst.”

            “Yes, Honored Grandmother.”

            “And I suppose he came sniffing for some rotting meat.”

            “He wants us to house Hahnar troops and pledge allegiance to the king. In return, they offer protection from Mullis.”

            Rabida snorted, flicking another piece of orange peel away. “He must realize that his offer will bear no fruit.”

            Dasaf was silent. Everyone spoke as if it were such an easy decision to make, but it would be Dasaf’s failure to bear if he chose wrong.

            “Dasaf.” Her eyes were fierce as they met his. “You are not honestly considering this arrangement.”

            “I want my people to live.”

            “If those Hahnars come through those gates, they’ll never leave. It took a war to get them _out_. We can’t possibly invite them back in.”

            “If the Mullis arrive, there will be no gates. There will be no Khamal. They are camped a week’s ride from here, honored grandmother! If they turn their eyes to us instead of the Hahnars—”

            “If we cannot defend ourselves, then we shouldn’t call ourselves a nation. Khamal will never ask for assistance from the Hahnars beyond the mountain. It is only _them_ who would benefit from such an alliance. If you pledge allegiance—which you will do when I am a corpse—they will tax us, rule us, make use of our farms, our facilities, and our alcazar. The king will sweep in whenever he wants and decimate our coffers. No. Ask the men who fight for you, they will tell you. They’d all rather die than spend money with that king’s face on it.”

            “So if we all die—”

            “Then we will do so as a free people from Khamal. Not slaves to a zealous Hahnar empire.”

            “So I must shoulder the murder of my people.”

            Rabida sighed. “It is a weight a Sumas must carry, if he needs to.”

            Dasaf ran his hands over his face, his frustration giving way to anger. He hated this, because he hadn’t _asked_ for it. He hadn’t even been trained for it. He was the second son, a back-up plan and nothing more. “Honored grandmother, I don’t know if—”

            “Don’t. Doubt is weakness.”

            “ _Everything_ is a weakness. Emotion is a weakness. Compassion is a weakness. Joy is a weakness. Love is a weakness. Should I sacrifice everything including my _humanity_ to be Sumas? I refuse to be my brother, even when everyone thought he was such a _wonderful_ leader. He never wobbled on anything, did he? He never _doubted_.”

            “Your brother had his weaknesses, just as you have yours.”

            “No one ever _lectured_ him about it though, did they?” Dasaf leaned back, stretching out along the dry earth as he stared at the sky. Sunlight burned whatever skin it could find. “Haadi didn’t let people tell him what to do. Probably because he terrified everyone.”

            “If you don’t like making decisions, then let me make it for you. Be gracious, but let that Hahnar know that we are not interested in any Hahnar occupation, or any allegiance to his king. Khamal protects its own. If this means its own destruction, then so be it.”

            It was easy for her to make the decision. If the city were ransacked and burned, no one would look to her for accountability.

            “Have you taken it to the Council?”

            “They’re meeting tomorrow.”

            “They’ll tell you the same thing as I did.”

            “Yes, all you elderly women think alike.”

            Rabida smiled briefly before sliding an orange slice into her mouth. She sobered quickly, because she was not the type of woman to express any contentment longer than a few moments. Dasaf’s father must have gotten that from her.

            “I hear you’re keeping a Mulli soldier in a prison cell.”

            Dasaf stiffened, sitting up. “Who told you that?”

            “Shallaf.”

            Traitor. Dasaf made a note to himself to yell at his advisor for such a crime later. Whose side was he on anyway?

            “Why isn’t he dead by now?”

            “It’s complicated.”

            “Because you make it so.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “There is nothing complicated about Mulli soldiers. Execution is the only option.”

            “He came with a servant.”

            “Yes, I know. The servant may live, but I would throw him out before he causes anyone harm. You know how those Mulli train the slaves they call servants. Close your eyes for a moment and that servant will have a knife at your throat.”

            Asan had ample opportunity to betray Dasaf already. Dasaf had given him a dagger to hold, after all. Dasaf’s guard had been down, and he might not have been able to stop a blade aimed at his gut. But Asan had handed it back without a hint of hesitation. Dasaf had no doubt there were some servants so beaten or starved that they would bite any hand that fed them, but Asan would not. There was goodness in him that men like Haadi would not see, because Haadi was blind to kindness.

            “Asan is of no threat to anyone.”

            “Asan? That is his name then?”

            “Yes.”

            “You’ve named him already? Like a dog?”

            “Honored Grandmother,” Dasaf forced through clenched teeth, “he _came_ with a name.”

            “A name I assume some Mulli monster gave him. I know how you like to take in orphan strays, but he is not yours to care for. If you want another servant so badly, we will find one. You cannot trust any _faskii,_ even if they aren’t Mulli. The sun bleaches their brains like it does their skin.”

            “Perhaps if you met him—”

            “You are thinking with your heart, Dasaf. It is not what a Sumas does!”

            “I am not going to throw a young man out into the desert for crimes he’s never committed. Where else can he go? Back to the Mullis? He came here to escape them. The Hahnars would imprison and enslave him, and considering his _qualities_ , they would not be kind.”

            “What qualities?”

            “He cannot hear. He speaks with his hands, and sometimes with his voice, though not well.”

            His grandmother stared at him a second, then lowered her face into her hands. “Aye, it is as I feared. A _crippled orphan_. No wonder you are so attached.”

            “I’m sorry if that makes me weak. I didn’t know it was a Khamal tradition to throw the vulnerable into the desert.”

            “In times of war, we cannot be the Khamal we want to be.”

            “I will not make enemies of allies.”

            “This still does not explain that _Mulli soldier_ you’ve got locked up.” Her expression was intense now. Dasaf didn’t blame her; he wasn’t exactly treating her with the respect she was due. Khamal elderly had stations above even those of the Sumas, especially as his grandmother. They were lauded for their wisdom and experience, and it was expected that a Sumas accept it.

            “I’m sorry, Honored Grandmother. It was a moment of weakness.”

            “Then make it right. I expect you’ll execute him soon.”

            Dasaf somehow managed to keep himself flinching. “I will see.”

            “No, you _will_. The danger a servant may pose is debatable, but soldiers are trained in the art of murder. You will not put any of your people in danger because you cannot stand the thought of taking a life.”

            “I—”

            “Nor will you ask Shallaf or any other to do it. _You_ are the Sumas, and it is your duty to protect your people. You were so quick to sign over allegiance to these Hahnars to protect them, and yet you refuse to kill a Mulli soldier for them? Must you always look for the easiest route out, Dasaf?”

            “No, I’m—”

            “I suggest you do it publicly. I am not immune to the whispers from outside of his alcazar. People doubt your ability to rule, Dasaf, and killing a Mulli might just help them regain their confidence in you. If people cannot stand behind their Sumas, you have a much bigger problem than a dead Mulli soldier.”

            Dasaf could barely speak around the lump in his throat. “But Honored Grandmother, I . . .”

            “You kill Mulli soldiers all the time. Why is this one so hard?”

            Dasaf wouldn’t even attempt to mention his promise to Asan. What promises did a Sumas have to keep to a Mulli servant? But Hahnars always kept their promises, and Dasaf wouldn’t be made a liar _twice_.

            “Is he handsome?” Rabida asked.

            Dasaf was furious and humiliated by the implication. “That has absolutely _nothing_ to do with this!”

            “Dasaf.” Her voice was even, nearly emotionless. “You _will_ kill this Mulli soldier before he wastes any more of our time. Once you’re done with that particular duty, you will attend to others, such as putting aside your fanciful lechery and marrying a proper woman, be she Leyla or otherwise. Do you understand me?”

            Dasaf opened his mouth to argue, but he feared that Rabida’s sharp tongue would cut him deeper than it already had. So he nodded and mumbled, “Yes, Honored Grandmother.”

            “Very well.” She paused, then held out the last few pieces of her orange. “Care for an orange?”

             

* * *

 

            “I want you to put your spear through this.” Dasaf stepped on the stake, driving it into the dirt. At the crown of the stake was welded a small iron loop, about as wide as Dasaf’s palm.

            Altaf frowned from atop his horse. “That’s so low.”

            “Then you lean over.”

            “I can’t lean that far.”

            “Altaf.” Dasaf employed his best warning tone.

            With a sigh, Altaf leaned the butt of his spear against his side and nodded. “I’ll try.”

            Dasaf stepped to the side of the arena. Altaf kicked his horse into a slow canter, making several circles before heading for the loop. On the first time around, the tip of his spear only brushed it, but by his second pass, he was able to slide his spear through the loop and rip the stake from the ground. When it slid up to the hand that gripped the spear, Altaf spun his horse around and let out a whoop of triumph.

            “Did you see that, Uncle Dasaf?”

            “Indeed I did.”

            Altaf cantered his horse over and dropped the stake at Dasaf’s feet. “Am I a warrior yet?”  
            Dasaf snorted and shook his head. “Not yet, I fear.”

            “I suppose I have to kill some Mullis before I’m a _true_ warrior.”

            Dasaf didn’t answer, but Altaf wasn’t really expecting one. He swung off his horse and landed in a cloud of dust. He patted his stallion’s shoulder before ducking under its neck and giving Dasaf a smarmy grin. “Am I allowed to go eat yet, Uncle?”

            “I think we should train for another hour.”

            Altaf groaned and went limp, using his grip on his horse’s mane to keep himself standing. “But I’m _tired_.”

            Dasaf reached over and smacked him lightly on the head. Altaf darted away with a cry. “Don’t!”  
            “You’d get worse than that if you told your father you were tired.”

            Altaf pouted but resigned himself to his task. Whenever Dasaf brought up his father, Altaf tended to become more compliant, probably because he knew what Dasaf said was true.

            “Come. We train on foot now.”

            Altaf nodded unhappily, but handed his horse to a nearby servant and followed Dasaf out of the arena without another word.

           

* * *

 

            Even though the people of Khamal spoke a different form of Hahnar than the one Fasa’s mother had taught her, Fasa was able to dissect sentences and therefore help Asan speak with Zheera, an old burly woman who oversaw the servants at the alcazar. She was very suspicious of Asan at first, ignoring him as she spoke to Fasa and then scoffing when his hands made movements with his words. Asan might have minded more if he weren’t so used to it. He’d much rather she ignore him than beat him.

            “She seemed vaguely unpleasant,” Fasa muttered as Zheera looked away.

            Asan shrugged. Likewise, Fasa didn’t seem bothered either. Neither of them had been granted much kindness in their lives, to the point that charity seemed like an anomaly.

            Zheera finally assigned Asan a task, thrusting a bucket, a wet rag, and a bar of lye soap against his chest. The floors needed washed, and who better to do it than the outsider who couldn’t complain. He didn’t ask for a mop, merely bowed and accepted her “gift”. She nodded sharply, then walked away.

            “You haven’t regained your strength,” Fasa said. “She shouldn’t have given you something like this.”

            Asan didn’t want to be seen as weak or incapable, so he was more willing to accept. With a sigh, Fasa led him toward their destination, which he soon realized was the area of the keep where Dasaf and his family members slept.

            “She ordered you to stay out of anyone’s rooms,” Fasa said as they stepped into the hallway. The architecture was much more regal here than where Asan lived, with an arched ceiling and a decorative tile floor, all lit by a large latticed window at the end.

            “What you doing?” Asan asked.

            “I’ve been relegated to kitchen duty.”

            Asan made a face, and Fasa laughed.

            “It’s better than being kitchen duty _and_ animal duty _and_ ‘keeping my ass of a husband happy so he won’t hit me’ duty. I will scrub my hands to the bone if I am saved from my old responsibilities.”

            Before departing, Fasa kissed him on the cheek and waved before vanishing through the hallway door. With a sigh, Asan splashed water across the floor and started to scrub.

            In his prime, he would have finished much faster. Not only was he still feeling the effects of his desert journey, but he hadn’t washed a floor in almost a year. Messenger didn’t help when he arrived and left a trail of dirt in his wake. Despite all his grievances, it was good to be useful again, to work. It made him think of Elder Hassad, which gave him pains in his chest. How he longed for Elder Hassad’s lessons again, the patient hand and wise eye. Asan wished to be in that library again, to have a world of books at his fingertips. He wondered if the Hahnars had their own fairy tales about captured princesses and brave knights.

            At the end of the hall was the biggest door, opened just a crack. Unable to resist, Asan poked his head inside when he’d run out of floor to clean.

            It had to be Dasaf’s bedchamber. It was much too large and grand to be anything else, though perhaps not quite on par with what Asan imagined a sultan to have. There was a real bed, not even a mat like what most people slept on. It was overflowing with silk blankets and plush pillows, all tasseled to match the rugs and curtains. Above it hung sheer veils, providing some semblance of privacy. In the corner were more pillows forming circle around one of the most elaborate hookahs Asan had ever seen. He couldn’t help but step over to inspect it, running his fingers along the abstracted script drawn in gold. He was shocked to find the script was recognizable to him, even if the words were not. He hadn’t known that the Hahnars and the Mullis shared the same alphabet. The book on Hahnars had told him that long ago, Mulli missionaries had brought their religion to the Hahnars, but it hadn’t mentioned their writing.

            Asan moved past the hookah to the built-in shelves along the far wall containing a plethora of scrolls and volumes bound in cracked leather. He yearned to pick one up and peek inside, but he was already causing enough trouble just coming in here.

            Rejecting the temptation to thumb through Dasaf’s literature, Asan fell victim to another. There was a second door, slightly open, and beyond it was a flash of sunlight and greenery.

            Pulling the door back, Asan stepped into a small private garden, its walls made of plaster and tile. Vines spiraled along a latticed ceiling overhead, some hanging low enough to brush his head as he passed underneath. Their white blossoms were redolent, attracting honeybees to their stigmas. Along the path grew squat yucca trees and thick bushes exploding with flowers. On one wall was a mosaic and a fountain where water flowed from a carved head of a cobra into a shimmering pool below. A broad stone alcove with a raised bed and a collection of silk pillows filled the back wall, and behind it was another mosaic mural mimicking an arched window.

            _Savages indeed_ , Asan thought to himself with a smile. He couldn’t help but approach the alcove, running his hands along the embroidered edge of a cushion. Such finery was so foreign to him, save that time he’d visited the caliph’s palace with Raheed. Even then, it had only been a glimpse.

            Asan sat on the edge of the bed, then threw himself down with a wide grin. What would it be like to sleep in a place lie this? A wrought iron chandelier hung from the groined vaulted ceiling above him, and Asan could smell the fragrant oil from here.

            After working for several hours on depleted stores of strength, Asan’s eyelids and limbs felt as heavy as boulders. He considered getting up, but as sleep clouded his mind, he thought that perhaps a small nap would never hurt . . .

 

*

 

            Dasaf was covered in a thin film of dirt and sweat when he headed toward his room. It would be another two hours before dinner, so perhaps he could catch a quick nap before suffering the company of his grandmother over pastries and tea.

            Dasaf paused at his door, noticing a nearby bucket and wet rag. Had a servant somehow forgotten about it? Shaking his head, Dasaf stepped into his room, stripping off his kufiyaand untying the belt around his waist. His eye caught on the door to the garden, which was wide open. It was a small detail that to most people would go unnoticed, but while he hadn’t received Haadi’s brutal training, he was sharper than most.

            Grabbing his sword, Dasaf crept into the garden. But he immediately lowered it when he saw a figure curled up on the bed in the garden alcove. Dasaf expected to be angry—he would have had it been any other servant. However, he was merely amused.

            Dasaf went back to his room and slid his sword back into its scabbard. Then he returned to the garden, striding to the alcove and sitting on the edge of the raised bed. Leaning his back against the wall, Dasaf curled his legs underneath him and watched Asan sleep. Once again, it was not something he’d do for anyone else, but Asan intrigued him more than most men. It had to be something beyond his looks, though he had those in prodigious supply. Dasaf could ogle anyone within the Khamal military ranks and get away with it. Perhaps Asan appealed to his curiosity, a young man from foreign lands with a foreign appearance. Dasaf had killed Mullis and freed _faskii_ servants, but he’d never really spent time with any. Asan’s deafness was another oddity that separated Asan from the others. Beyond that, Asan certainly seemed as interested in Dasaf as Dasaf was in Asan.

            Dasaf remembered sniffing out Shallaf, catching the hooded glances and the occasional lingering look. At that age, it had been exciting. Dasaf was sixteen, blood hot with lust he couldn’t even begin to understand. He’d been a tiger, stalking his prey and pouncing when Shallaf stumbled. Shallaf was older but laced tight and understandably reluctant to show any interest in Haadi’s younger brother, even though Haadi was already dead at the time. Dasaf was young and naïve, but he was used to getting what he wanted. Shallaf was well trained and disciplined, but he’d never been taught about love or its intricacies. With little effort, Dasaf had him, but once he did, he didn’t know what to do with him. He still didn’t know what they were to each other after the thrill had died. Dasaf had grown out of their relationship, but there was no one else, and someone was better than no one.

            “My grandmother wants me to throw you out,” Dasaf told Asan, voice soft even when it need not be, “and kill that soldier of yours. But if I did that, you’d hate me forever, wouldn’t you?” Because Dasaf didn’t really care about Mulli, but he _did_ care about Asan. There was a quiet serenity about him, something pure. So often men were influenced by hatred or power or lust, but he sensed none of that in Asan. What seemed to drive him forward was a deep affection for the Mulli soldier. Dasaf thought it misguided, but touching all the same.

            Dasaf did not _have_ to listen to his grandmother. She made it seem like he had to, but he was not obligated to throw Asan out or kill the Mulli. He’d thought about it throughout the day, but now that he was here with Asan, he couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. So he was weak in the eyes of his people. He could think of worse things. He could be his father Zhad, cold and blinded by one objective: kill outsiders.

            Dasaf reached out and gently pushed some hair off of Asan’s forehead, then pulled his hand away as if burnt. What was he doing anyway? This was madness.

            Slipping off the bed, Dasaf nudged Asan’s shoulder firmly. Asan’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up with an expression akin to a startled antelope. When he saw Dasaf, his surprise morphed into fear.

            “I suppose it’s comfortable then?” Dasaf asked, unable to keep himself from smirking.

            Asan scrambled off the bed and, to Dasaf’s surprise, collapsed to his knees on the ground. For a second Dasaf thought he was sick or afflicted before realizing he was _groveling_. He was saying something too, but in his panic none of the words were intelligible. Dasaf quickly bent to grasp a handful of Asan’s caftan to pull him upright. Asan flinched, as if waiting to be struck.

            “I’m not angry,” Dasaf said slowly and clearly, so that Asan would understand easily. “Asan, please. Stand.”

            Asan remained kneeling, hesitant. “Not angry?”

            “No. I’m not.” Dasaf couldn’t help but smile, which eased some of Asan’s panic. Cautiously, as if waiting for Dasaf to change his mind, Asan slowly rose to his feet.

            “If you don’t mind me asking,” Dasaf asked as pleasantly as he could manage, “why are you sleeping in my private garden?”

            Asan’s eyes stretched to the limits of their sockets, mouth flapping in an effort to reply.

            “It looks like you were cleaning the hall outside.”

            Asan nodded frantically, then began to gesture before he was able to find the words. “Didn’t—I—fell asleep—um. Uh.”

            “Alright, maybe we’ll save an explanation for later.” Dasaf took one of Asan’s hands, which was gesturing wildly. “You must have been curious, correct?”

            Asan nodded again.

            “I can’t fault you for that. I’m sure Zheera might, but she doesn’t have to know, does she?”

            A ghost of a smile crossed Asan’s lips, but he still looked terrified, despite Dasaf’s reassurances.

            “Speaking of Zheera, she’s put you to work already? And washing floors even? Well.” Dasaf shook his head. “I think that work is much too hard for you, after all you’ve been through. No. I still consider you a guest of sorts, and so perhaps we will find something easier for you.”

            Asan’s eyebrows dropped low. “I work.”

            “Wouldn’t you prefer something easier? I’ve been on the look out for a personal servant, actually.” Dasaf really _wasn’t_ , but for some reason he couldn’t stop the words from forming. “Someone to help me in my day-to-day affairs, serve me and my family at meals, easy things. What do you think about that?”

            Asan’s blank stare was his reply, then another quick nod. “I like,” Asan replied.

            “Good! It is done then.” Dasaf reached around Asan and clapped him on the back. “No more scrubbing floors. And perhaps if you ask kindly next time, I’ll let you take more naps in my garden, eh?”

            Asan flushed, still nodding. For a second, Dasaf’s hand lingered on Asan’s back. When Dasaf realized it, he yanked it back and cleared his throat.

            “Follow me then,” Dasaf said. “I suppose it’s about dinner time anyway.”

 

* * *

 

            It was customary to invite guests to a family dinner, and normally it was a pleasant affair. But having a Hahnar from beyond the mountain at their table had everyone on edge. Leyla felt particularly uncomfortable, considering how the Hahnar kept looking her way. She was used to stares like that by now, but it felt less invasive coming from a Khamal man than a Hahnar.

            Dasaf didn’t look terribly pleased either. Occasionally he’d catch Leyla’s eyes, but she’d shake her head. The last thing she wanted was a scene. Let the Hahnar look. Once he had his answer, he’d be gone, and hopefully she’d never have to suffer his presence again. Perhaps she was overreacting. He hadn’t said anything inappropriate, after all. She unfortunately dealt with unwanted attention since she became a woman, something her sister had never really forgiven her for. Malika had always been the “plain” one, a curse that Leyla would gladly take from her if given the chance.

            Dasaf did his best to remain charming. He told stories about stealing figs from the kitchen when he was a young boy, and it had everyone laughing, even Rabida. People may not approve of his politics, but there was no Sumas more gracious or gregarious. If anyone could avoid conflict by telling jokes, it was Dasaf. Leyla remembered meeting his mother once as a child, and she had been the same way. In all of Leyla’s foggy memories, Suman Nyasah had been smiling, laughing. She’d had a beautiful laugh, the type to put even prisoners and enemies at ease. Dasaf claimed she lost some of that joy as she aged, trying to please a reticent son and a husband with impossible standards. Dasaf had been her angel, her “seed of joy”, the only thing that returned that jubilant smile to her face. 

            As the dessert plates were cleared, Leyla couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of Raheed’s servant hovering around the doorway, taking the plates given to him by the usual serving girl. With the Hahnar here, it was best he not show himself, but apparently Dasaf had put the man to work.

            “I’ve never been trampled by a camel,” the Hahnar, Jamal, was telling Dasaf. “That’s not to say one hasn’t tried!”

            “You’re missing out then. It’s great fun.” Dasaf drank from his glass of wine. “So much fun that I couldn’t even remember it the morning after.”

            “Honored Jamal,” Rabida interrupted as Jamal laughed.

            “Ah, no!” Jamal insisted. “No need to call me _honored_ anything, Honored Suman. A woman of your status should bow to no one.”

            Rabida just nodded, a polite yet reserved smile on her face. “Perhaps it is time the ladies depart for their beds. I’m sure you and Dasaf may want to share hookah and more of your . . . stories.”

            “Ah, Khamal tobacco is the sweetest,” Dasaf said. “You must try it.”

            “I have never turned down hookah and I never shall.” Jamal stood and bowed in Rabida’s direction. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Honored Suman. I shall tell everyone beyond that mountain that there is not a people more gracious than those of Khamal.”

            Rabida nodded, then gestured to Leyla and Malika. Malika had been sullen and quiet all evening, throwing glares at Jamal’s back when his head was turned. This sort of behavior shocked no one, considering how Haadi’s paranoia had worn off on his widow.

            As Rabida stood and faced him, Jamal put a hand to his heart and bowed. Accepting this, Rabida moved on. Next was Malika, who barely inclined her head when he bowed again.

            “One day I should like to meet your son,” Jamal told her. “I hear he grows stronger and more like his father every day.”

            Malika’s smile was fragile. “He will be everything Haadi was and more. Perhaps when he is Sumas you will meet him.”

            Jamal’s expression was pleasant but secretive. He nodded his head, and she moved past him without a glance back. Leyla braced herself and faced Jamal for the evening’s goodbye.

            “Shuma Leyla,” he said, his grin wider, oily. “It was an honor meeting you. I knew of your name but hadn’t a face to give it. And what a lovely face it is.”

            “Good evening, Honored Jamal,” Leyla said through clenched teeth before nodding shortly and joining her sister and mother-in-law in the hallway.

            “Hahnars,” Malika muttered under her breath as they navigated the dark. “They’ll flirt with anything that moves.”

            After a brief goodnight, Leyla headed toward her room while Malika and Rabida continued down the main hall. Just as Leyla’s hand touched her door handle, she was startled by movement in the shadows. She reached for the dirk that she’d neglected to carry tonight before realizing who it was. She instantly relaxed.

            “Asan,” she said with a smile. “You scared me!”

            Asan bowed his head, a silent plea for forgiveness. Leyla waited for him to speak.

            “Raheed,” he said at last. This was one of the few things he said with such sufficiency that one might have never known he was deaf.

            “You want to see Raheed?” she asked.

            Asan nodded.

            “Now?”

            “Later, maybe.”

            “Perhaps tomorrow we can arrange something.” She couldn’t help but smile at the expression of joy on his face. “Raheed has improved greatly. He’s been asking about you.”

            Asan clasped his hands together and held them to his mouth to hide a grin.

            “Come to me after breakfast tomorrow. I will take you to see him.”

            “Thank you.” Asan placed a flattened hand against his chest, directly above his heart. “Very much.”

            Leyla nodded, and Asan darted away, disappearing back into the darkness. 


	12. The Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYQ6gBm_3qA) for this chapter.

            The Council room was small, almost intimate, better suited for entertaining than it was for politics. Dasaf knelt in the center, Malika to his left and Altaf to his right. Altaf hadn’t spoken since arriving, so at least he had some sense of propriety. A child his age simply did not speak when in the presence of Khamal’s eldest and wisest women. Dasaf recalled sitting at his father’s side this way during Council meetings, though he was invited to very few. Haadi alone had attended most of them.

            The Council was made up of six women, all of whom were respected members of the community. Rabida sat behind them, looking on silently. She had been offered a seat on the Council, but she had no desire to make decisions. That, she said, was something she did not miss when she was Suman.

            There was no real hierarchy amongst the women. Dasaf’s advisors were ranked in ways that the Council was not. The Sumas was in charge of Khamal’s immediate affairs while the Council ruled from behind a curtain, planning courses of action decades in advance. Women, it was believed, had more talent with the future than they did the present, though Dasaf wasn’t sure he grasped the present as tightly as a man was expected to.

            Hallah was the first to speak, a woman past even Rabida’s age. Her hands shook, but her voice did not. “We have been informed of this Hahnar’s offer. He wishes us to house Hahnar troops in exchange for their protection. Is this true?”

            “Yes, _shuman_ ,” Dasaf replied.

            “And he wishes you and Altaf both to pledge allegiance to the Hahnar king.”

            Altaf glanced at Dasaf, his nose wrinkled. Dasaf ignored him and answered, “Yes, that is true, _Shuman_ Hallah.”

            “And of Malika?”

            “He did not mention Malika.”

            “Hahnars beyond the mountain do not find women to be threats,” Malika said, voice grave.

            “Have you given him a reply?”

            “No, _Shuman_ Hallah.”

            Hallah turned to her left, whispering under her breath to Asha. Asha was always distinguishable by her hefty headdresses, which rose nearly a head above anyone else’s. As a child, Dasaf had asked her if she kept pastries up there for consumption later. She’d laughed and the next time she saw him, she pulled out a candied date and held a finger to her lips. It had been their little secret.

            “The Hahnars extend no kindness without expecting twofold in return. This we know,” Asha said.

            “I recognize this, _Shuman_ Asha. But I do also recognize that the Mullis linger nearby. My men don’t have the exact numbers, but their estimate is around twenty thousand.”

            The Council women began to mutter amongst themselves. Altaf shifted nervously at Dasaf’s side, perhaps uncomfortable with this new knowledge. Dasaf wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he knew such a gesture would be seen as coddling. So he let Altaf settle down on his own.

            “If an army of that size comes to our gates, there is no chance,” said Myahn, whose bony hands were covered in enlarged veins. “We will be annihilated. Our city only has seventy thousand—”

            “And if the Hahnars ride past our gates, we might as well no longer call ourselves _Khamal_ ,” replied Yufa, Dasaf’s maternal great aunt. He remembered that she had always been rather hard on his mother, and so his relationship with her was tenuous. “We will be their slaves once more. A Khamal Sumas, bowing to a Hahnar king? I will wander out to die in the desert before I see such a thing.”

            “Yufa,” scolded Hallah. “This is not the place or time for such hyperbole. The fate of our people is at stake.” She turned to Dasaf. “How many Khamal men can fight should we face war?”

            Dasaf frowned. “Counting only the young, trained, and strong, we have almost seven thousand. I suppose we could find more if it were needed.”

            “So few against so many might work if we were fighting a horde of barbarians,” said Bhani, bundled in several caftans to stay warm. At her age, she was mostly leather skin and fragile bone. Dasaf did not know her age, considering she’d always looked a thousand years old. Her voice was cracked and wobbly. “But these are trained Mulli soldiers, a force that has conquered all of our neighbors and former foes save the Hahnars.”

            “A Khamal man can take two Mullis, perhaps. Mullis are _bhanak_ , so they fight for nothing but bread in their stomachs and whatever pitiful enslaved existence they can call life,” said Asha.

            “Do not underestimate _bhanak_. For every story of a fool, you will hear of a _bhanak_ who fights with the ferocity of ten. They are a varied lot, and it is better to have an abundance of caution instead of a dearth.”

            “Honored— _Shuman_ —” Altaf began.

            Everyone’s eyes were on him in a second. Malika looked horrified that he would speak and reached across Dasaf to grab him. But Dasaf pushed her back. It was the Council’s duty to reprimand him, not his mother’s.

            “Child,” snapped Hallah, “you are _not_ to speak during such matters.”

            “But we _have_ a _bhanak_ soldier!” Altaf blurted. “I think he’s still alive and in jail. Can’t we just—”

            “Altaf,” Dasaf muttered under his breath. He didn’t want to take the belt to Altaf’s hide, but clearly Altaf did not know his place.

            “He’s awake, I heard the men say so!” Altaf continued, wildly now. He must know that a harsh punishment loomed. “Why not use him? Ask him about the Mullis, he will know!”

            “That _Mulli soldier_ should be dead,” Rabida said from the back of the room, breaking her silence. “It is only through the fault of our _Sumas_ that he still breathes.”

            The room was filled with a suffocating silence for several seconds. Eyes moved from Altaf to Dasaf, then back. Dasaf had never felt so terrified in a group of women. Rabida’s threats were mostly empty, but law and duty made him adhere to the Council’s will.

            Dasaf felt Malika’s glare on the side of his face. If he’d been hoping for her support, he was sorely mistaken.

            “I have heard rumors about this.” Asha shifted, eyes narrowing. “So it is true that there is a Mulli soldier in our prison.”

            Dasaf bowed his head low in hopes it might appease them. “Yes, _Shuman_ Asha.”

            “I thought it was a mandate that all trespassers be executed,” Yufa said. “And that it was your duty to fulfill this mandate on your weekly patrols.”

            “All _Mulli_ trespassers,” Dasaf said, feeling like an idiot.

            “He is Mulli, is he not?”

            “ _Bhanak_ Mulli, but yes. He is a soldier.”

            “Why was he not executed?”

            For the first time, Dasaf floundered. “Circumstances arose.”

            “Such as?”

            Dasaf did not want to mention Asan at all, considering that the Council might order them _both_ executed. But Malika was as helpful as ever.

            “He came with a servant,” Malika said. “The servant is not Mulli but is _faskii_. Another arrived as well, a Hahnar half-blood whose mother was a slave to the _faskii_ s, though she came in before the soldier and was given work here in the alcazar.”

            “A servant _and_ a half-blood?” Myahn asked in disbelief.

            “And a camel and a dog,” Dasaf finished lamely. “And a horse.”

            “Is this a _tavern_ we are running for weary travelers?” Yusaf’s nostrils flared.

            “It still does not answer the question as to why this soldier was not killed.”

            “Apparently,” Malika began, her clipped tone making Dasaf cringe, “from what I know, the servant pleaded for the soldier’s life.”

            “So what?” Yufa demanded. “It is none of our concern what a _faskii_ servant wants. We are neutral toward servants. We do not entertain their pleas or opinions. This has been a massive and _dangerous_ oversight, housing a Mulli soldier—!”

            “Yufah.” The last woman on the Council, Dhima,  tapped her cane on the tile floor. She was taller than the rest, though stooped with age. From her ears hung heavy golden rings, and tattooed beneath her eyes were six dots, signifying the number of children she had birthed. Through thin lips, a voice of authority emerged. “We have not come here to bicker over the presence of a single Mulli man. If one such man frightens us, then how are we to fight when a horde of twenty thousand arrives at our walls?” She turned a sharp gaze to Dasaf. “In what condition is this soldier?”

            “He has been heavily injured but will probably live.”

            “While I do not exactly approve of Altaf’s rude and highly inappropriate interruption, I will overlook that for the content of what he has said. We call ourselves wise women and yet we have not paused to consider this child’s astute suggestion. Every Mulli in our midst is slaughtered, and because of this we know almost nothing about the enemy we face. Why not bring this _bhanak_ before the Council and see what he has to say?”

            Several voices of dissent rose at once. Finally Asha raised fingers to her lips and whistled, quieting them all. She pointed to Bhani first, who bowed her head with acknowledgement.

            “You expect a Mulli soldier to betray his people? For the sake of what? What could he possibly gain in return?”

            “His life,” Dhima replied.

            “They have no concern for their lives,” Yufa shot. “They are bought and trained to die for the empire and that is all!”

            “Dasaf looks like he has something to say,” Dhima said as Hallah attempted to get a word in. The women all looked to him.

            “He may not care for his life. This I know. But I also know that I have something more precious than his life to offer him.” Dasaf glanced at Malika, who was watching him carefully, looking both worried and suspicious. “His servant.”

            “What does he care of his servant?” asked Myahn. “Mullis care naught for anyone beneath their status.”

            “You have not met this servant nor this soldier then. I know little of the soldier, but Asan has already shown willingness to put himself in extreme danger for the sake of his Mulli master, and I suspect the Mulli feels likewise.”

            “He is brainwashed, of course.”

            Dasaf shook his head. “I know what is trained affection and what is true affection, and this is most definitely the latter. Bring the soldier before us. You will see.”

            Dhima nodded, then turned to the Council women. “Before we make any decision regarding Hahnar protection, we must know what we face. We have relied upon brief glimpses of an army from rocky perches. Perhaps it is time we sought more reliable information from within.”

            “If he talks at all,” Yufa said. “I doubt he will.”

            “There is no harm in extracting what we can. Through peaceful means or . . .” She glanced at Dasaf, “otherwise.”

            Dasaf nodded, then bowed his head.

            “Let us call a brief recess so that the soldier can be brought to us. We will rejoin when he has arrived. Dasaf, see that this is done.”

            “Yes, _Shuman_ Dhima,” Dasaf replied, then stood, Malika and Altaf with him. Together, they left the Council room.

 

* * *

 

            Asan’s hands were a constant whirlwind the moment he arrived with Leyla to visit Raheed. Sometimes Raheed lost track and struggled to pick back up, but he didn’t mind, because it was enough seeing Asan so animated. It had been a long time since he’d smiled with such elation.

            Leyla sat nearby, dipping her rag into water and then wringing it out again. Raheed couldn’t see any  purpose in it, so perhaps it was just something to keep her hands busy. As glad as he was to see Asan, he couldn’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye time to time. She was dressed in a bright orange caftan today, embroidered with beads that sparkled in the dim torch light. He’d told himself he’d never let a woman be his weakness again, but Leyla was quickly becoming just that. He didn’t just look forward to her arrival because of the torch and the laudanum she brought.

            _Are you paying attention_? Asan asked.

            “Huh? Oh, of course.” Raheed’s eyes darted back to Asan.

            Asan frowned, then looked over at Leyla. Then he lifted his eyebrows at Raheed.

            _I’m sorry I’m not as interesting as a pretty woman_ , Asan said.

            _Don’t_ , Raheed replied, deciding that some conversation was best left silent. _She’s the only one I see. Of course I’m . . ._ “fond,” _of her_.

            “Fon?” Asan asked out loud.

            “ _Fond_ ,” Raheed sounded out. “Like affection.”

            _So the fact she is pretty—_

_—has nothing to do with it_.

Asan laughed, shaking his head. He didn’t look terribly offended, so Raheed let it go. With a final lull in their conversation, Asan reached out and adjusted the thick blanket across Raheed’s chest, as if fearing Raheed were cold. Raheed wasn’t shocked; Asan was always quick to mother him.

            _She’s nice to me too_ , Asan finally said. _I approve. If you’re nice to her too! She’s not a whore._

“Asan!”

            Leyla jolted at Raheed’s tone, turning to face them both. “What are you two going on about?”

            Asan practically giggled, face flushing red. Raheed was quick to scold him with, _Of course I’m nice to her! I know she’s not a whore_. _But I’ve never . . . I don’t think I’ve ever talked to a woman at length who_ wasn’t _a whore_.

            “Raheed?” Leyla asked.

            “Sorry.” Raheed gave her an apologetic smile. “Perhaps it’s rude to have private conversations while you’re here.”

            “I don’t mind, but I do like to be let in on the occasional joke.”

            Asan laughed harder, completely turning away to hide his face.

            “Are you talking about me?” Leyla asked, putting her hands on her hips.

            “Of course not.”

            “I don’t believe you. Asan’s face tells all.”

            “It was nothing bad, don’t worry.”

            Asan twisted to face Leyla again, still grinning. “Raheed _fond_ of you.”

            Raheed hit Asan in the arm, and Asan ducked away with another laugh.

            “When did you start speaking anyway?” Raheed asked Asan, who just shrugged and smiled.

            “Perhaps I should just leave,” Leyla offered, expression strained, as if she were trying to enjoy the joke but couldn’t.

            Raheed sobered. “It’s nothing, really.”

            Leyla sighed and stood, dropping her rag into her bucket with a splash. “No, really, I think—”

            The opening of the cell door interrupted her. The first to enter was Dasaf, trailed by several men and a woman of Leyla’s size and age. When the men stepped toward Raheed, Asan spread his arms in a protective gesture. Luckily Leyla was there to stop them first. She began to argue in Hahnar with Dasaf, who began to explain himself but was then interrupted by the woman, her voice sharp and angry. There was a lot of gesturing and shouting while the Khamal men stood nearby and looked on with uncertainty. Asan had practically draped himself over Raheed, which Raheed found touching but unnecessary. Neither of them was going to be any match should Dasaf and his men want to take him to a chopping block.

            Finally Leyla turned around and approached Asan, laying a hand on his shoulder.

            “They have come to take Raheed,” she said to both of them, though she was looking at Asan. “They promise not to hurt him, only to ask him some questions.”

            Asan shook his head, his grip on Raheed’s arm growing painful.

            “Asan.” Raheed touched Asan’s hand. Asan turned to face him. “Hahnars always keep their promises. Didn’t that book tell you that?”

            Asan bit his lip, glancing between Raheed and Leyla. Everyone was staring at him, so he finally withdrew his hands from Raheed and slid off the mat, allowing the Hahnar men to approach. Leyla snapped at them when they handled Raheed too roughly, but Raheed knew it was of no consequence to them. Asan pulled off the outer robe he’d pulled around his caftan and used it to cover Raheed’s nudity. The robe bulged where Leyla had strapped all the bandages over his wound.

            The laudanum helped keep the pain to a dull throb, but he couldn’t help but let out a hiss as they dragged him forward several steps. Before he passed by Dasaf and the mystery woman, a heavy cloth was drawn over his eyes and tied at the back. Wherever he was going, he wasn’t going to be privy to its location. Once again shrouded in darkness, Raheed fought back the usual panic that he felt when left in a black room alone. Leyla had promised that they wouldn’t hurt him, but after Dasaf had broken his promise to kill Raheed, Raheed didn’t think much of Hahnar promises.

 

* * *

 

            With the Mulli soldier manacled and blindfolded in the center of the Council room, the elder women were able to reconvene.

            Dasaf stood at the Mulli’s back, ready to act should the man have any stupid or brave notions about escape. He doubted the Mulli could walk, let alone fight. But Dasaf took every precaution with Mullis, because as Bhani said, you did not underestimate _bhanak_. They were from unknown regions of the world, taught to slaughter and little else.

            “Take his blindfold off,” Yufa ordered.

            Dasaf did as he was bid, and the Mulli took a few moments to look around. Finally his gaze landed on the wise women, and his body stilled. Dasaf’s grip on his sword tightened.

            “Dasaf, you will have to translate for us,” Hallah said.

            Dasaf nodded. “Of course.”

            So through Dasaf, Dhima was the first to address the Mulli.

            “Why have you come to us, Mulli?” she asked.

            The Mulli frowned. “Not by choice, that is certain.”

            “Have you come to spy on us?”

            “No, of course not.” The Mulli seemed offended by the question. “I would not make a very good spy. I’m a terrible liar.”

            Dasaf couldn’t help but smirk as he translated his Aillic into Hahnar. The women were less amused. Dasaf heard the door behind him creak open, admitting Malika and Altaf, who stood sheepishly at her side.

            “Very well, Mulli.” Dhima cleared her throat. “We will offer you a deal.”

            The Mulli’s jaw tensed, but he nodded. Dasaf could already see him swaying, trying to remain on his knees but lacking the strength. Clearly he was not as well as he’d let on before.

            “It is our tradition to kill Mullis. They have plagued our lands for a century, and two of our beloved Sumases have died at their hands. You _will_ be executed by the end of the week if you do not choose your future words wisely.”

            “I will do my best,” the Mulli replied.

            “We want to know the secrets of the Mulli army that resides just a week from here. Their numbers, their strategies, their plans. If you can provide this, we will spare your life and the life of your servant. However, if you deny us this, or if the information you provide proves to be false, you will be beheaded and your servant’s safety cannot be guaranteed.” Dhima’s eyes were as unmoving as marble. “We would like to extract answers from you in an ethical way, and we don’t wish to cause unnecessary harm to your servant, with whom we have no quarrel. But the safety of our people is at stake, and we will not sacrifice it so that one Mulli servant may keep all his fingers.”

            Dasaf flinched, and saw that the Mulli was not entirely immune as well. Dasaf saw him clench his fists behind his back, despite remaining rather emotionless otherwise.

            “Are you going to attack the Mulli army?” the Mulli asked.

            “No. We will be defending our city with the information you provide, nothing more.”

            The Mulli glanced back at Malika, still waiting by the wall and looking on with the compassion of a hungry lion. Dasaf didn’t particularly care for such eye contact, so he nudged the Mulli in the side, drawing a hiss of pain. The Mulli sent him a hateful glare, but Dasaf only sneered.

            “May I take some time to deliberate?” the Mulli asked.

            Yufa spoke up. “We do not have time to waste! You will supply us this information now or pay the cost!”

            “One moment, if you please, _Shuman_ Yufa,” Dasaf said as pleasantly as he could manage, then leaned down beside the Mulli and grabbed a handful of his hair. The Mulli attempted to yank away, but considering his injuries and his manacles, Dasaf was in complete control.

            “I don’t particularly _want_ to behead you, Mulli,” Dasaf muttered as quietly as he could manage. “But I will do so if I must. However, you will _not_ make any council or elder force me to torture your servant. Certainly you don’t want that, and I want that even less.”

            “What do you care about Asan?” the Mulli snapped back. “Don’t you hate all Mullis?”

            “He is not Mulli.”

            “Close enough though, right? He looks like one.”

            “My sister-in-law has invested quite some time in your health. It would be a shame to ruin all her hard work.” Dasaf pulled out his dirk and pointed it at the Mulli. “I suppose it depends on your priorities. Do you care more about your slave drivers, the Mulli Empire? Or do you care more about the servant who saved your sorry excuse for a life?”

            The Mulli glared at him for a moment, then said, “I liked you better the first time we met.”  
            Dasaf stood, “accidentally” knocking his knee against the Mulli’s side so he winced.

            “Well? What is his reply?” Dhima asked.

            “Your reply?” Dasaf said in Aillic to the Mulli.

            There was a long silence before the Mulli lifted his head and said, “What do you need to know?”

            Dasaf let out a low, even breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

            Asan was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is quite as wonderful as writing about old ladies talking about war and giving the smack down. Old ladies are the best. THE BEST.


	13. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This [week's soundtrack](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDOGSh9kgyA)

 

            Asan didn’t know much about gardening, but he figured he could at least trim branches back and water the soil, which was his current task in Dasaf’s private garden. He wondered if this was the garden where he’d seen Dasaf and Shallaf together, but it couldn’t be. There was no lattice to look through. Perhaps Dasaf had several private gardens littered through the alcazar, or maybe Asan had dreamed the whole thing. As time passed, the latter seemed increasingly feasible, since Asan saw no other proof that the two felt anything more for each other than their stations required. Not that Asan ever sought Shallaf out; the advisor as not nearly so kind as the man he advised.

            Asan jumped when he saw a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and found Dasaf standing in the doorway, looking exhausted. He pulled off his turban as his eyes met Asan’s, and he forced a strained smile.

            “Hello, Asan.”

            Asan nodded in greeting, deciding it best if he remained on his knees.

            “You’re here rather late, aren’t you? The sun has nearly set.”

            Asan shrugged, then asked, “Raheed?”  
            “The soldier is fine. I returned him to his room in the same condition I took him.”

            “Why take him?” Asan asked, signing as well.

            “It’s complicated. I’m sure the Mulli will tell you. Tomorrow I must face more politics, and I simply haven’t any desire to think about it until then.” He stepped down the path, stopping only several paces from Asan. “I think I will skip dinner and spend my evening here. I must ask, however: do you play chess?”  
            Asan smiled and nodded.

            “Excellent. What I need at the moment is strong wine, a good game, and enjoyable company.” Dasaf tense smile relaxed, and Asan’s chest mysteriously clenched. “Anything to take my mind off tomorrow.”

            Asan nodded and stood, brushing the dirt off of his long caftan. He’d removed his sandals when his feet had started to sweat against the leather. “Where we play?”  
            “In the alcove. There’s a small table built into the wall, and a box for the pieces. We will need wine though. Would you mind—?”

            Asan shook his head, bowed, and rushed out of the room to retrieve what Dasaf had asked for.

 

* * *

 

            “You said you played. You never told me you were _good_.”

            Asan smiled around his goblet of wine, feeling a little loopy from the two glasses Dasaf had insisted that he drink. He’d never had more than a few sips in his life, so it hit him harder than it was hitting Dasaf. Asan imagined that Raheed might laugh at him now, because it took far more than two goblets to put Raheed in such a state.

            “Elder Hassad,” Asan said, finding it difficult to move his lips around the name. “My teacher.”

            “Elder, hmm? Aren’t those clerics?”  
            Asan nodded.

            “How did you know him?”

            “Raheed’s teacher. I was servant, but also student.”

            “Ah. He taught you to read then.”

            Asan nodded.

            Dasaf looked down at the chessboard, rubbing his chin and then pulling on the beard that grew from it. Asan found it vaguely amusing and hid another smile behind his goblet. 

            “He must have been generous, to teach a servant such skills.”

            “Elder Hassad like to teach.” Asan couldn’t keep his free hand from moving with the words, and he saw Dasaf watching it.

            “You must give me more lessons on your sign language.”

            “Now?”

            “After this game, perhaps.”

            Asan nodded once more.

            “What happened to this Elder Hassad?”  
            Asan sobered. “Dead.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            Asan shrugged, but he had to look away to keep his face from collapsing. It had been a year, but it still hurt to think about it. One did not forget one’s only father figure so easily.

            “My mother taught me most everything I know,” Dasaf said, still looking down at his chess pieces. “Including my Aillic. My father warned her against it, but my mother said it would always pay to know the language of one’s enemies.” Dasaf reached out and grabbed a knight to slide across the board. “She taught me chess too. I remember losing quite spectacularly to her for years.”

            Asan snickered, then covered his mouth with his hand. But Dasaf only grinned, so Asan lowered his hand and allowed himself to smile.

            “I have no mother,” Asan said. He decided to keep signing with his words, in case Dasaf wanted to see them. “Long time ago, maybe. But mostly orphan.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            Asan shrugged. He couldn’t really miss what he’d never had, though of course he could lament the fact that he’d missed out on so much of the love that parents must offer.

            “How did you live then? I believe Mulli told me long ago that you were a beggar boy.”

            Asan nodded. “No one like. Always chased, beaten. Raheed kind to me, bring me food. Teach me to speak.”

            Dasaf sighed and set down his goblet of wine. Their game of chess seemed to stall. “Years ago—oh, it must have been eight, ten years? I asked Raheed why he should live, and he said that there was a deaf beggar boy that he needed to return to. I didn’t believe him, thought it was some sob story he’d conjured to make me feel pity for him. Yet here you are.” Dasaf’s eyes softened. “If I hadn’t let him go, where would you be?”

            Asan looked down at the chessboard, then into the dark wine in his goblet. “Dead, probably. Raheed save me, take me to . . .” Asan didn’t know how to pronounce the name of the city, as he’d only seen it written once or twice. “Raheed take me to big Mulli city to serve Elder Hassad.”

            “Interesting, isn’t it? How such a small action can change entire fates? For a while I chided myself for letting him go but . . .” Dasaf smiled again. “God does work in mysterious ways.”

            They returned to their chess game in silence for a while. Asan considered their skill level about equal, though he feared Dasaf slowly gaining on him. Asan wasn’t sure if winning was even an option, considering Dasaf’s station. Perhaps Asan should purposely lose. He didn’t see Dasaf as the type of man to take offense to loss though. Yet what did Asan know about Dasaf? Despite all their conversations, there were parts of Dasaf’s life completely unknown to Asan.

            Suddenly, Dasaf made a rather grievous error, and he seemed to notice only moments after Asan. It would be foolish not to take advantage, but Asan hesitated. He lifted his gaze to Dasaf, who only chuckled and shook his head. Asan made his move, then grinned as Dasaf knocked over his own queen.

            “Oh, Asan.” Dasaf flopped back onto the mountain of pillows behind him, laying a hand over his face. He might have said something, but Asan couldn’t see his mouth at that angle. Asan put his goblet down so that he could put the chess pieces back in their box and flip the board up against the wall in its usual hidden position. He definitely did not sneak a peak of Dasaf laid out before him, one bare, thick arm raised, the neckline of his caftan dipping to the top of his stomach. Heat rushed to Asan’s face, but he took another sip of wine in hopes he could blame it on that.

            Finally Dasaf sat up again, pulling his arm from his face. The lamps had burned low, providing little light to see by. However, Asan could still see the shimmer of gold from Dasaf’s heavy earrings, as well as the Khamal scorpion he usually had pinned to his cloak. Indeed, it was a single scorpion surrounded by sheathes of wheat, just as Asan had dreamed.

            Asan must have stared for a second too long, because when he finally lifted his eyes, he saw Dasaf looking at him.

            “You asked me about _jusefs_ , did you not?” Dasaf asked.

            Asan quickly took another sip of wine in hopes of delaying his flustered reaction. He nodded.

            “Is it because you feel personally invested in their definition?”

            Asan’s eyes widened in shock, and he felt his entire body freeze with fear. He couldn’t bring himself to respond.

            “I ride out to do patrols and come upon a Mulli soldier I had freed years ago, one who begged me for death. I was ready to comply when a servant rushes out of nowhere and attempts to strike me down with absolutely no regards to his own life. He cries and he screams and he does everything possible to stop what is most likely an inevitable death, and to be honest, Asan, I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite as . . . moving as that. Beyond this, I was with you when I first took you to see that Mulli soldier. I think I know love when I see it.”

            Asan put his goblet onto the shelf before burying his face in his hands, wondering if he might cry. No one had ever noticed. No one had ever said anything, and yet Dasaf was talking about it as if it were so entirely obvious . . .

            Fingers gently wrapped around his wrist and pulled one of his hands from his face. Dasaf didn’t look angry or disgusted. In fact, he looked sympathetic, more than anything Asan would have expected. Dasaf pushed away Asan’s other hand as well, then took Asan’s chin between two fingers, keeping him from looking away. Asan’s heart burst into a sprint, and all he could do was stare at Dasaf helplessly, waiting for his sentence.

            “Asan, I’ve known for a while now, and yet what have I done? Nothing. It’s of no concern to me.”

            Even though Asan comprehended the words, they didn’t sink in. He’d spent several years fearing the day someone would know, at least someone outside of Samid, who could do him no harm. As much as he loved Raheed, he’d never want him to find out. Raheed would not react well.

            Dasaf released his chin, and Asan’s skin burned where Dasaf’s fingers had been. Asan was vaguely aware of the heat between his legs, but luckily he was wearing loose enough clothing that it wasn’t apparent.

            “You’re not going to deny it, are you?” Dasaf asked.

            Asan bowed his head, then shook it.

            “Honestly, Asan, the fact that no one else has realized it speaks more to others’ blindness than it does to your subtlety. Not that I’m surprised. People would rather convince themselves that servants are naturally so loyal and selfless. But I know servants, and I know Mullis, and I’ve never seen any servant throw himself in front of a sword for his master. Nor have I seen a servant sacrifice his freedom for the life of a master. _Nor_ have I seen a servant so breathlessly sit at his ill master’s side. You’re a good servant, but not _that_ good.”

            Asan wondered how he must look right now. He felt his cheeks might catch on fire.

            “So tell me, are you two lovers then?”  
            Asan’s entire body curled inward, though he resisted the urge to put his hands over his face again. He shook his head.

            “Doesn’t surprise me. I knew that Mulli was dim, but not _that_ dim.”

            Asan frowned. His throat was so clenched that he couldn’t say anything, so he shook his head and signed, _Raheed is not stupid. He is just oblivious sometimes_.

            “I know, I know. Of _course_ sun shines out of your Mulli soldier’s ass. He can do nothing wrong, correct?”

            Asan gave Dasaf a displeased look, and Dasaf laughed.

            “Alright, I’ll give him credit! He did save you from what I assume was a dire situation, and I will thank him for that. And he must be very stubborn, surviving despite all odds. And he certainly is not lacking in looks, so I can’t blame you there either.”

            _His looks have nothing to do with it_ , Asan signed, though of course that might be a tiny lie.

            “Let me ask you this, then. Do you think there is any chance of such love ever being requited?”

            Asan stared at Dasaf a moment, then dropped his gaze and looked away, biting his lip. Finally, he shook his head.

            “It is a shame,” Dasaf replied after a long moment, “for such fierce devotion and affection to remain unrecognized.”

            Asan shrugged, telling himself it didn’t matter. It was Asan’s fault for being a fool. He’d never believed that Raheed had eyes for anyone who was not a beautiful woman, and yet still part of him hoped and prayed that one day . . . one day he’d see in Asan what Asan saw in him. After so many years, it was time to face reality. Raheed did not know and would never know—Asan would make sure of that.

            Dasaf lied back on his elbows, picking at a seam on his caftan. “I loved someone once, back when I was young—twelve, thirteen maybe? A very impressionable age, an age in which you still believe that fairy tales are historical documents. His name was Walid, and he was one of my brother’s few friends, more out of duty than anything. My brother would say such cruel things, but Walid always spoke to me kindly. Walid was not entirely bright, but he was handsome and he had compassion for others. He would let Haadi boss him about, but I don’t believe he was ever bitter about it.”  
            Asan kept quiet, but his insides were twisting with both joy and anxiety. Dasaf hadn’t made any spectacle about it, but he’d certainly just admitted to being like Asan. Asan had already assumed, but it was enormously comforting to hear him admit it out loud, as if it were nothing, as if it were _normal_. Breathlessly, Asan waited for him to continue.

            “I would do him favors, seek him out and conveniently be in his way. He was a good man, Walid. Oblivious, of course. He never would have imagined my true intention, but . . .” Dasaf’s smile faded. “I believe if he had ever knew of it, he would have accepted it graciously. He’s dead now, of course. He went out with my brother when my brother was killed. They sent Haadi’s horse back to us with Haadi’s head in a bag. I assume Walid’s bones have been buried in the sand by now.”

            It was such a dark turn that Asan hadn’t been expecting, but he kept quiet, waiting for Dasaf to continue. Dasaf seemed to be somewhere else at the moment, talking more to himself than to Asan.

            “Then there was Shallaf, of course. After Haadi’s death, he became my advisor instead. He and Haadi were never close, but Haadi listened to him, which was impressive considering how little Haadi listened to anyone who wasn’t our father. I certainly frustrated Shallaf to no end. I didn’t like to listen, and I’d tease him in ways he wasn’t accustomed to. Sometimes I noticed that his gaze would linger a little longer, and I knew. He hated me, but he wanted me, and I . . .” Dasaf paused, reaching out for his goblet to take a sip of wine. “I was young, and I was spoiled. I did what it took to have him. But I don’t think I’ve ever really _loved_ him like I loved Walid. Even after all this time, Shallaf and I have been more like acquaintances who, on the rare occasion we aren’t screaming at each other, take pleasure from the other when we can. Take, Asan. Not share.”

            Suddenly, Dasaf snapped out of it and realized who he was talking to. He smiled awkwardly, looking self-conscious for the first time. But Asan was used to this. People always told him things they didn’t tell anyone else.

            “I don’t know what I’m saying,” Dasaf finally said.

            Asan shrugged. He’d already known about Shallaf, but perhaps not to the extent that Dasaf had talked about.

            “I shouldn’t be talking about this. Look what you’ve done.” Dasaf’s grin was fragile. “Leyla always said I enjoy the sound of my own voice too much.”

            “Don’t mind _,”_ Asan replied. “Interesting.”

            “About Shallaf. If you ever come across him, ignore him. He’s not happy unless he’s _unhappy_ , and despite my best efforts, his social skills are abysmal.”

            Asan laughed, and finally Dasaf began to return to his usual gregarious self.

            “I know how the Mullis feel about men like us,” Dasaf said. “I’m sure they made you feel very ashamed of what is entirely natural. Khamal tends to be a bit backward as well. We value family and children above all else, which often shoves love to the wayside. The Hahnars beyond the mountain are very free with one another, and male bonds are seen as important as any other. I suppose it’s one thing they may have right. I probably should have told you that I knew earlier, but . . .” Dasaf’s grin turned teasing, “seeing you fumble after I found you spying on me behind a bush was rather entertaining.”

            Asan snorted, feeling both embarrassed and amused by his own stupid behavior. His laugh faded when he saw Dasaf staring at him again.

            “The way you laugh,” Dasaf said, “is so charming.”

            Asan didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know the sound of his laugh, only knew what a laugh looked like and felt like. Afraid of reacting improperly, Asan reached out and took another sip from his wine. Dasaf was still looking at him, and he didn’t know what to say or do outside of blush and stare into his goblet. It was not a reaction a man his age should have to a little flirting, but he was so unprepared and so unaccustomed to it. The only one who looked at him twice was that girl who delivered the milk, and Asan never fostered less-than-pure thoughts about _her_.

            Dasaf straightened, gaze slightly less intense. “Now that our game of chess is over, you can teach me some of your signs, correct?”

            Asan nodded, desperate to divert the attention away from himself. He began with simple expressions, small sequences of movements that conveyed popular sentiments. Sometimes Dasaf would make a joke of his mistakes, and Asan would correct him with a good-humored smile. So often he was thought a fool or rendered clueless, so it was nice to finally be the scholar for once. At one point Asan reached out to correct the position of Dasaf’s hand, moments before remembering who he was teaching. Asan pulled away, but Dasaf said nothing, and moments later Dasaf made the same mistake, asking in a way that a simpler man might have thought coincidental, “Wait. Show me again.” Asan would, but not without his skin prickling when it came into contact with Dasaf’s. He pulled his hands away as quickly as possible, afraid of it escalating. He _wanted_ more, but he was too terrified to contemplate what it would mean. He wasn’t expecting Dasaf to capture one hand, then twist it gently so that he could look at Asan’s palm.

            “My mother said hands told stories. Sometimes she would look deep into the lines of my palm and tell me what lied in the future. She claimed there was greatness in store for me.” Dasaf’s paused, his thumb tracing a wrinkle in Asan’s palm. “I think she would have liked to meet you.”

            Asan swallowed, his hand going limp in Dasaf’s grip. Of course he always watched people’s lips, but he did so now with unusual intensity. His breath was shaky, and he felt as if he’d been thrust over an open flame. Briefly his gaze darted up to meet Dasaf’s, but Dasaf’s eyes were cast downward toward Asan’s mouth. That was when Asan stopped breathing all together, and he felt the thread of his self-control unravel. When he allowed honesty to flood in, he realized both how much he wanted this man and how insane it was to feel so. But he wasn’t imagining the way Dasaf was leaning toward him, fingers pressing into Asan’s sweating palm.

            Then it was over, because Dasaf jerked away, twisting to face the garden entrance. Asan sucked in a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, then tried to calm his crackling nerves as Dasaf slipped off the alcove bed and crossed the garden to his bedchamber. It was dark inside his room, but a small sliver of light escaped from the hallway when Dasaf opened his bedchamber door.

            Asan quickly scrambled off the bed and crossed the few stepping-stones to retrieve his sandals. He was tying them at his ankles when he saw Dasaf and his guest approach. A guest whom appeared to be Shallaf.

            When Asan looked up, he met Shallaf’s steely gaze, then immediately turned away. His hands shook, making his knots sloppy. When he was confident he could walk without them falling off, he stood straight and bowed low when Shallaf stood before him.

            “Go, Asan,” Dasaf said, arriving at Shallaf’s side. “Have a good night.”

            Asan nodded and took off, walking as quickly as he could manage without running. He only relaxed once he’d left the keep, heading along an open walkway to the building that housed his bedroom. Messenger seemed to find him just then, galloping down the corridor until he came to a skidding stop at Asan’s heel. Asan bent down and picked him up, allowing Messenger to lick his face before they headed for Asan’s room together.

           

* * *

 

            There was a throne room that Dasaf avoided if he could. The throne had been dismantled a century ago, but there still remained a heightened platform on which Dasaf and Malika sat, facing Jamal and his guards, who had arrived just moments before. It was a long, narrow hall, surrounded by arches that opened up into courtyards where only birds visited. Jamal and his men sat on a long rug that extended more than twenty strides, tasseled along the edges and embroidered with complex swirls common to Hahnar taste. When the Festival of Honey began, they rolled up this rug and put it away so that visiting Matij would not be insulted by its luxury.

            Jamal was dressed in a vivid purple caftan, his turban dyed to match. Discs of gold hung from his ears, and matching studs decorated his nose and eyebrows. His guards were slightly less decorated, but only the poorest of the Hahnars lacked decoration. Their empire was littered with excess, and the Hahnars were always so eager to boast it. Dasaf was not always unimpressed. His father had always torn apart the Hahnar way of life, but whenever Dasaf caught glimpses of it, he was only more intrigued. He did not underestimate their ability to lie, scheme, and use trickery to get their way, but he could certainly admire their sense of fashion.

            Jamal and his guards bowed before sitting. Dasaf nodded to acknowledge them, though Malika’s tilt of the head was barely noticeable. He could see that her jaw was tense.

            “Ah,” Jamal said, turning toward Malika. “How very Khamal, to have the _Suman_ at your side.”

            “She is my brother’s widow and the mother of the future Sumas. I daresay she has more power than me.”

            “We have spoken with the Council,” Malika said, her voice echoing along the vaulted ceiling. It was strong, sharp at its edges. “And we have come to a decision.”

            Jamal nodded, his face still struck with a hint of a smile.

            Malika looked to Dasaf, waiting for him. He would have rathered she tell him, but everyone knew he had a way with words, as well as a talent to charm that few men of his family possessed.

            “I suppose I will give you the answer that you must have come expecting,” Dasaf began. “Khamal’s gates are always open to Hahnar travelers, merchants, and politicians. But I fear that we cannot allow Hahnar soldiers to join us. We hope to foster a prosperous relationship with our mother nation, but it is not that can be enjoyed beneath the same banner.”  
            “You say this,” Jamal replied, his sly smile finally slipping away, “knowing that there are twenty thousand Mullis just a stone-throw away from your gates.”

            “We understand the risk, but it is one that Khamal has decided to shoulder all on its own. Honored Jamal, your countrymen will always be welcome here, but I cannot swear fealty to your king, nor can I house your troops. Centuries before we fought a great war to escape such a treaty, and Khamal holds peace with its Hahnar brothers as paramount.”

            “If the Mullis arrive, the Hahnars will not come to your aid.”

            “Yes. We are aware.”

            Jamal frowned, then pushed himself to a stand. His guards did so as well, faces blank. “It is a shame to hear of your decision, Honored Dasaf. I had hoped you acquired the wisdom that your predecessors had not. I see foolish pride will always flourish before reason in Khamal.” He bowed, one hand on the hilt of his sword while the other arm rested against his stomach. “Thank you, Honored Dasaf and  Suman Malika, for your hospitality and deliberation. I shall take my leave.”

            Dasaf sat erect and still until Shallaf, who stood at the far end of the hall, showed Jamal and his guard the way out. Only when the hall was empty did he notice his hands shaking. The deed was done, but the burden was not lifted. If the Mullis came, it could be a certain death for his people. And for what? Pride? Old quarrels with the Hahnars, involving rulers and men long since buried?

            He only remembered Malika’s presence when he felt a touch on his wrist. He looked over and saw that she was smiling, a rare occurrence these days. It was not a large smile, or even a happy one, but she seemed proud.

             “Today you were a great leader,” she said.

            “I shall suffer the consequences as one.”

            “This is for the best.” Slowly, she unwrapped her legs and stood, the hoops hanging from  her ears rattling. “Haadi and your father would have approved.”

            Dasaf wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. But he stood as well, adjusting his turban. Together, he and Malika left the throne room. It was time for lunch.

                   

* * *

 

            Raheed didn’t know if he could take the darkness much longer. Deprived of sight and most sound, he began to hear things, like voices and thumping that never proved to be anything at all. He was only as religious as he needed to be, but he began to feel like spirits were haunting him. It kept him from sleep, and it made being awake more terrifying than usual. Coupled with his pain, it made for a reality that mirrored nightmares. He was so on the edge of his wits that when Leyla came, he nearly sobbed with relief. He’d thought that after helping the Hahnars with the info they needed—he’d stopped caring about the Mulli army and everything else outside of Asan and maybe Leyla—that they would at least grant him the small kindness of a room with a window. But he’d been returned to this hell, and he once again began wishing that the fever would take him.

            When Leyla arrived, Asan was with her. Asan looked better than he had in a long time, clean-shaven and well-dressed, his hair combed back and the bruise on his forehead faded to an almost imperceptible red blotch. It was a small comfort that Asan was being taken care of.

            His eyes moved to Leyla, who remained by the door as Asan swept forward to embrace Raheed. She always looked a tad melancholy, as if dwelling on a sad memory. When his gaze caught hers, she smiled minutely, but it did not reach her eyes.

            Asan pulled back from Raheed with a grin. It faded when he looked at Raheed’s face. He lifted a hand to push back some of Raheed’s hair, which was damp with sweat.

            _You look like a ghost,_ Asan said. _You are not well_.

            _I haven’t been sleeping_ , Raheed replied. _I . . ._ He swallowed and looked down at his hands. _I am terrified of this place, the dark_.

            Asan looked over his shoulder at Leyla. He then spoke. “We move Raheed.”

            “Where?” Leyla asked.

            “A room with a window,” Raheed replied, dropping his head back against the pillow. He had no pride left by now. He just needed out. “Someplace where I can _see_ , _hear_ things. It is torture here. Please.”

            “I can’t make that decision,” Leyla said, voice soft. “I would have to ask Dasaf.”

            “I ask,” Asan insisted. “Dasaf listen to me. I leave now.”

            “No!” Raheed grabbed his arm, then hauled him back to a sit. “Don’t leave. I can’t—I don’t want to stay here.”

            Asan melted beside him and nodded. _Okay. I will stay. Leyla can go_. He twisted to face Leyla again. “Can you ask?”

            “I don’t think I should leave you two alone,” Leyla said, eyes moving between Asan and Raheed.

            “Oh yes,” Raheed said with a delirious laugh. “I’m sure Asan will haul me right out of here. We’d just hit the next closest city, no trouble at all. I hear the weather’s so mild around here.”

            Leyla frowned. She clearly did not like being mocked. “I’m only doing what I’ve been asked to do.”

            Asan stood, even though Raheed grabbed his sleeve. Raheed’s grip was weak, so Asan easily escaped it. He moved closer to Leyla and said, “I stay. Promise.”

            Leyla sighed and nodded. “Very well. I will bring Dasaf, and we will see what he has to say.”

            Then Leyla walked away, and Asan settled back down by Raheed’s side. Normally Raheed might have protested the way Asan petted his head, but it felt oddly soothing, like a mother comforting her frightened child. Raheed rested his head against Asan’s shoulder, wishing he could slow time so that the flame’s light might never leave again. His vision was not as sharp as it was, dulled by lack of use.

             “Asan?” Raheed pulled back slightly so Asan could watch his hands. _Did they tell you about what they did with me when they pulled me from this room?_

Asan shook his head. _No. They said only that you were safe_.

            _They wanted me to rat out the Mulli army. I couldn’t tell them much, being as I don’t know anything of Yussam’s plans. But I told them that to the best of my knowledge, the Mullis did not plan on taking Khamal. I also told them Mulli numbers, the way they fight, what weakness I could think of . . ._ He sighed. _They threatened to kill me and hurt you if I didn’t tell._

            Asan frowned. _Dasaf would never hurt me_.

            “What do you know?” Raheed asked aloud.

            Asan flushed slightly. _Dasaf is a good person_.

            _What makes you say so? He keeps me down here in this hell, then only takes me out to threaten my life and threaten yours_.

            _He threatened my life?_

_They said they would cut off your fingers, at the least_.

            Asan paled. _Did Dasaf say this_?  
            _No, some old women did. But Dasaf talked to me as if he would be the one to carry it out. He thoroughly hates me._

            Asan’s hands curled around the center of his chest, and his teeth worried his bottom lip. He looked unsure.

            _You cannot trust Hahnars_ , Raheed continued. _Even if they seem kind, they always have a motive._

            _Dasaf saved your life when I begged him._

            _Just barely._

            Asan shook his head. _You Mullis and Hahnars! You know nothing about the other and yet you all speak as if you have vast experience!_

            _And you have vast experience?_

_I have spoken to Dasaf far more than you._

_Perhaps I have an advantage then. He hasn’t tricked me with any lies_. _Asan, you are young and naïve—_

_I am not naïve! I know more than you do about many things!_

_Like what?  
            _ Asan leaned back, indignant. _Dasaf._

Raheed knew Asan was more trusting than he should be, and he knew that it would only take gestures of kindness to twist Asan’s loyalty. After all, it had only taken some bread and lessons to gain Asan’s approval. Remembering his encounter with Dasaf years ago, Raheed believed the Sumas was more a man of honey than a man of the sword. He had a way with words, and Asan was impressionable. Asan had suffered much, but he still knew so little of the world and the lies of men.

            _We need to find a way to escape_ , Raheed finally said.

            _Where would we go?_

_I don’t know. We can’t go back to the army, or to any place within the Mulli Empire. There is a sea beyond the Hahnar mountains. Perhaps we could head south._

_But there are Hahnars south._

_Not Khamal Hahnars. We could pretend to be merchants or slaves or servants. It wouldn’t be so hard. You just flirt a little with them and act stupid and they eat out of your palm._

            Asan eyed him suspiciously. _How would you know_?  
            _I have first-hand experience._

Asan seemed hesitant. Raheed took his hand and squeezed it.

            _We would be together, Asan. We’d be okay_.

            Asan’s eyes widened, looking hopeful. Then he nodded, squeezing Raheed’s hand in return. 

They talked about this escape for what felt like an hour before Dasaf and Leyla returned. Dasaf did not look particularly amendable as he followed Leyla into the dank cell, ducking his head to avoid striking it on the doorway. Why did he look larger every time Raheed saw him? Was Raheed shrinking? He wouldn’t be surprised, considering all the muscles that were wasting away with disuse.

            Raheed had fearlessly faced bigger men in battle, but it was different when he was injured and incapable of escape. Whatever was left of his bravery was eaten away by the whispering shadows that haunted him in this cell, so he couldn’t help but shrink under the severity of Dasaf’s glare.

            That’s why Raheed was a little baffled when Asan calmly stood and approached him. He was even more shocked when Dasaf visibly softened, even if it was gone in a flash. Raheed must have missed out on a great deal during his imprisonment.

            “Raheed need room with light,” Asan said.

            “So he can make demands now? Is this an inn? And am I a tavern wench?” Dasaf looked past Asan to Raheed. “Should I bring you some coals to warm your feet?”  
            “Dasaf,” Leyla said. “Stop. It is completely dark down here, and it’s been nearly a month. Any man would go mad in a place like this for so long.”

            “Why should I care?”

            “Sumas Dasaf,” Asan said. “Please.”

            Raheed couldn’t see the look on Asan’s face, but he could see Dasaf’s reaction to it. Dasaf grimaced, then grumbled something in Hahnar under his breath, then threw up his hands.

            “Fine! Give the man a room with a view! Why not let him dine on lamb and sweet breads while we’re making him so comfortable?”

            Asan turned back to Raheed with a grin. Raheed attempted to return it. Once again he wondered where he’d be if not for his servant.


	14. Milk and Honey

           

            Dasaf refused to bring Raheed into the alcazar, but there were a few empty rooms along the outbuildings, mostly reserved for storage purposes. One was located just behind the stables, meant for a stable boy or, once, a slave boy. It was not glamorous accommodation—the walls had cracks, the floor was dirt, and the only window was a tiny rectangle located in a corner where the ceiling met the wall. But it was better than a dark dungeon, and Leyla ordered several servants to bring bedding and a lamp, if not two. In the distance, horses whinnied, occasionally kicking at their stall walls.

            After Raheed was situated, Asan asked Dasaf, “Can I bring horse?”

            “Hmm?” Dasaf didn’t seem to understand as Leyla watched the interaction from the corner of her eye.

            “Raheed’s horse,” Asan clarified.    

            “My horse?” Raheed asked, twisting and then wincing. Leyla pushed him back down against his pillows. “My horse is here?”  
            “Fasa rode in on a horse,” Leyla said as she finished tying up Raheed’s new bandage. The wound had finally closed, so changes were infrequent. “A brown horse?” She shrugged. “I don’t know the Mulli word for the specific color.”

            “I get her!” Asan exclaimed, excited. “I know where.”

            “Asan—” Dasaf began, but Asan already darted out the door. Dasaf frowned, but did not pursue. Leyla hid a smile behind a hand.

            “I assume Asan’s accommodations are better than mine,” Raheed said.

            “Of course. In fact, I’ve already named him my personal servant.”

            Raheed faced Dasaf with a glare. “Why?”

            Dasaf shrugged while Leyla rolled her eyes. He acted as if there were no particular reason for this, but Leyla knew better. “He is well-mannered and hard-working.”      

            “He’s _my_ servant.”

            “I don’t think he belongs to anyone,” Dasaf corrected, his voice lined with ice.

            “Dasaf,” Leyla interjected. “Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside.”

            Dasaf seemed to consider arguing with her, but then sighed and marched out into the sunlight, slamming the door behind him.

            “You boys sound like children,” Leyla said as she put away her bandaging materials. “Asan is the most mature among you.”

            “I don’t like it. I don’t like Hahnars being so close to—” Raheed cut himself off, then threw Leyla an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you are a woman.”

            “And?”

            “And I fear Hahnar men more than Hahnar women.”    

            “Maybe that is where you are flawed.” Leyla clicked her medicine chest shut. “You should fear my sister above all else.”

            “Yes, I had the honor of meeting her before. A rather sour woman, if you ask me.”

            “It’s probably you,” Leyla joked.

            “If it’s me, why don’t _you_ hate me?”

            “Who said I didn’t?”

            Raheed must have not believed her, because he smiled. “If you hated me, you wouldn’t have agreed with Asan about moving me to another room.”

            “Perhaps I just like Asan.”

            “Apparently _everyone_ does here.” Raheed frowned. “Is it because he is more handsome than me?”

            Leyla laughed, more from nervousness than anything else. She didn’t want Raheed to know the real answer to that. “Perhaps. He _is_ rather enchanting. Strong and silent,  yes?”

            “Please tell me you’re joking.”

            “What is so odd about me finding Asan handsome? Don’t you think it’s true?”

            “I wouldn’t know.”

            Leyla raised her eyebrows.

            “Asan is Asan. I’ve known him since he was eleven. I still know him as a little beggar boy.”

            “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, he’s a man now. And he will make some future woman very happy.”

            “Asan can’t marry. He’s a servant.”

            “In Khamal he can marry. We have no such silly laws about parentage here.”

            “So you’re going to marry him then? Is that what you’re saying?”        

            “Of course not.” She hid a smile as she said, “A Hahnar with a Mulli? It’d be unnatural.”

            “He’s not Mulli.”

            “I know.” She gave him a pregnant look before standing. Raheed struggled to sit as she crossed the room.

            “Where are you going?” he asked.

            “I am going to talk to Dasaf for a moment.”

            “Can’t you stay?”  
            “Why do you care?”

            “I prefer some company to none.” Raheed’s voice was softer now, a plea more than anything. “Especially if it’s yours.”

            “What pleasure has my company ever brought you?”

            “Surely you jest.” When Leyla was silent, Raheed continued on. “I’m _alive_ because of you. And when you spend all day in total darkness, you have no idea how I lived for the moment I saw you walk through the door.”

            Leyla felt her face grow hot, but it was silly of course. Men had been singing her praises since she hit womanhood. At first they had excited her, because the attention of men was said to be one of the most valuable things a woman could own. But she quickly realized that such compliments were empty, and they made her feel like a prized cow. Knowing what she did about Mulli soldiers, anything flirtatious put her on edge. They raped and they whored, and they thought nothing of women. But at the same time, she’d seen this man at his most vulnerable. Asan, who she knew to be a gentle soul, clearly thought highly of him. It was hard to see him as the raging animal she’d been told all Mulli soldiers were.

            “You probably dreaded your time down in that dungeon, especially considering who I am and who you are. But I do appreciate it. It may be why I survived at all.”

            “I just did what was my duty.”  
            “Of course.” Raheed nodded, but there was a sadness to his eyes that Leyla didn’t want to see, so she pushed out of the room and joined Dasaf, who was leaning against the wall, cleaning underneath his fingernails with the tip of his dirk. Leyla nudged him, and he quickly put the dirk away.

            “Some noble king you are,” Leyla teased.

            Dasaf snorted. “If you ever thought I was noble, Leyla, then you’ve been living your whole life as a lie.”

            Within moments, Asan was trotting a horse toward them, her red coat gleaming in the sun. Leyla recalled Fasa riding her through the front gates before being immediately apprehended and questioned, then taken to the alcazar. Leyla hadn’t given much thought about the horse; she hadn’t known it was Raheed’s. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t questioned a wild-haired girl like Fasa riding in on something so clearly well-bred.

            Asan pulled Ahmbra to a stop, running a hand through her mane as the mare shook her head. He handed the horse to Dasaf, who took the lead with a bewildered look. Asan ducked under her neck and dashed into Raheed’s room. Moments later he returned, his arm slung around Raheed to support him. The horse pricked her ears and nickered softly, and a look of such affection crossed Raheed’s features that Leyla forgot that he was even Mulli at all. With Asan’s assistance, he was able to shuffle over to his horse and stroke her muzzle.

            “Ahmbra,” he whispered against her cheek. “Oh, Ahmbra, I worried I’d never see you again.”

            Ahmbra pressed her nose into his hand, her lips searching for food. Raheed laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, I see.”

            Leyla couldn’t help but smile along with Asan at the scene. Dasaf looked mildly annoyed, but Leyla ignored him. She watched Raheed grin through his now shaggy beard, watched love fill his eyes like it had whenever Asan visited the first time. She found it difficult to hate this man, or even feel appropriate disdain. In fact, there was a stinging sensation in her chest that suggested something deeper, though she refused to acknowledge it. She had written off men since her sister’s marriage to Haadi. Haadi had never been violent, but he had changed her sister in a way that made her a near stranger, and Leyla would never forgive him for that. Haadi had been handsome, strong, and intelligent. He had been all the “right” things a man should be, so how could Leyla ever know if a Haadi waited in every other man, ready to emerge and point out ever mistake she ever committed? Was there a Haadi in Raheed? There had to be. If not, he was Mulli—there was probably all sorts of ugliness within him that came with his background.

            “Enjoying your vacation then?” Raheed asked his horse. She said nothing, only continued to nuzzle his outstretched hand in some delusional hope that food might appear in it. Raheed turned to Dasaf. “I assume she’s been taken care of?”

            “Does she look it, Mulli?” Dasaf asked.

            “She looks good.”

            “Then she’s been taken care of.”

            After petting his horse for a while, Raheed allowed Asan to take her back to wherever she was kept. Dasaf’s eyes followed him until he vanished around the corner of the stable. Leyla moved forward to help Raheed back to his bed, as now he was leaning against the doorway to stay upright. But Dasaf pushed her back.

            “I’ll take him back.” He strode forward and grabbed a fistful of Raheed’s thin robe before hauling him back inside. Raheed blurted out a protest, but Dasaf didn’t let go until he threw Raheed down to his floor mat.

            “Dasaf!” Leyla scolded. “Stop that.”

            “Can we stop wasting time now? The Mulli’s seen his horse. Are we done?”

            Leyla glared at him, so Dasaf tossed up his hands and left, though he didn’t go far. He had the key to the door, after all.

            “I’m sorry,” Leyla said, bending low to help Raheed adjust his limbs in a comfortable position. She pulled some of the blankets closer, smoothing them out with nervous hands. “I shall send Fasa out later with some food for you. You can thank her for making sure your horse was taken care of.”

            “I will.”

            “Where did you get the name for your horse, Ahmbra?”

            “Uh . . .” Raheed’s eyes slid to their corners, and there was a hint of blush on his cheeks. “A woman.”

            “I imagine she wasn’t of a reputable sort.”

            “Honestly, Leyla, you’re probably the first woman I’ve met who is the ‘reputable sort’. So forgive me if I keep fucking u—I mean, messing up with you.”

            “Will I get a horse named after me then?”

            “Of course not. You’re much prettier than a horse.”

            Leyla snorted, then tried to hide it. She opened her mouth to reply, but Asan appeared in the doorway, breathless and smiling. Deciding that Asan could take it from here, she grabbed her medicine chest and stood. She shared one last look with Raheed before exiting.

            “What are you grinning about?” Dasaf asked her.

            “Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

 

            When Dasaf ate with his extended family—mostly Malika’s mother and other relatives—Asan was not asked to serve. Fasa said that even someone like her, a half-blood, would not be welcome to serve more conservative members of Dasaf’s family in fear of dishonoring them. But when Dasaf ate with only Leyla, Altaf, and sometimes Malika, Asan was allowed to serve them personally, a job much preferable to scrubbing floors as Zheera had initially suggested. It meant finer clothes, including several of the decorated caftans Dasaf had provided Asan. When he began, he retained the strict protocol that he was taught by Elder Hassad. He would lower himself onto his knees to serve so that he would not be taller than those he was serving. In Ayllamal, servants were almost always ignored, so it was expected that a servant would not speak, and Asan had no trouble with _that_ rule.

            However, as he bent at Altaf’s side, Altaf twisted to peer at him curiously.

            “What are you doing, serving my tea?” Altaf asked.

            Asan was a little startled, glancing behind him for a moment to make sure Altaf wasn’t addressing someone else. “I am servant,” Asan finally replied, his voice stumbling.

            “I thought you were a guest.”

            “He is both, Altaf. One can’t laze around all day, can he? Even guests need things to keep their hands busy.” Dasaf nodded toward Asan with a slight smile. “Asan works because he wants to.”

            Asan nodded and filled Altaf’s tea, then moved on to Dasaf. He wasn’t sure whom to serve first, considering Altaf would become Sumas upon maturation. Dasaf took no offense to Altaf being served first, and Asan had expected as much. When he bent at Dasaf’s side, Dasaf’s eyes watched him. Asan glanced toward Leyla and Malika, but they were talking amongst themselves, oblivious to him.

            “Why do you kneel like this?” Dasaf asked. “So much sitting and standing.”

            “Is proper,” Asan replied as he poured.

            “In _Mulli_ maybe,” Dasaf muttered before biting a piece of bread. “Just bend at the waist, Asan. It is easier on you.”

            Asan said, “I do not mind,” without thinking. He should have mindlessly agreed, like a good servant. But, like always, Dasaf seemed unperturbed.

            “Could you get me some milk for this?” Dasaf asked.

            Asan nodded and scuttled out of the room. There was a small kitchen with no stove just beside the dining room, used for organizing meals and storing common condiments. On the counter sat a pitcher of milk that another servant had rushed over, so Asan placed it on a silver tray, along with a small bottle of honey and several bowls of spices like cinnamon and mint leaves. Such were common additives to tea in Ayllamal, so he decided to bring them all at once.

            When he returned, he set the tray in front of Dasaf before reaching for the milk. But then he caught Dasaf laughing from the corner of his eye, and he looked up to find that Altaf and Leyla were giggling as well. He searched around for a source, but then Dasaf put a hand on his shoulder, marking him as the subject.

            “Forgive me,” Dasaf said, grinning. He motioned to the tray before him. “Are you serving me milk and honey at once?”

            “Is . . . bad?” Asan asked, confused. He couldn’t recall Dasaf ever voicing any objection to honey or milk before.

            Altaf smiled as he replied, “Milk and honey served together is a marriage proposal!”

            “You couldn’t have known,” Leyla told Asan. “But honey is only used for evening dishes and milk only for morning dishes. It is thought that honey is male and milk female, and the joining of both is a proposal to marry.”

            Asan flushed, which made Altaf nearly fall over with laughter. Even Malika seemed to be cracking a small smile, though she lightly slapped Leyla in an effort to quiet her. Asan didn’t enjoy being laughed at, but upon seeing Dasaf’s expression, he decided it _was_ rather funny.

            “I _do_ ,” Dasaf murmured, leaning in close with a smirk.

            Asan grabbed the honey and stood, trying to leave with as much dignity as he could manage. When he returned, Dasaf waved him over.

            “Speaking of milk and honey . . . have I mentioned to you the Festival of Honey? It will start next week.”

            Asan shook his head.

            “Well, each growing season begins with the Festival of Honey and ends with the Festival of Milk. The Festival of Honey begins planting season—Milk ends it.  Men plant the seed, women bear it. As we welcome the Honey rains, we always have an _enormous_ celebration throughout Khamal, poor and rich alike. Even the Matij will come to celebrate, though I’m not sure they truly _celebrate_ anything.”

            “Dasaf,” Malika chided from the other end of the table, though she said so through a full mouth and downcast gaze, a warning and nothing more.

            “The Matij don’t drink and they don’t dance. They barely play music. But they do observe the season with us, mostly because our harvest feeds their tribes. Trust me, they are tough company to bear, but bear it we must. Maybe it will be more tolerable this year with the Head Chieftain dead and his son rising to take his place.”

            “Don’t speak ill of the dead,” Leyla said.

            “I said nothing _ill_ about him. I just think he was dreadfully boring.”

            Altaf giggled, then covered his mouth when his mother shot him a look.

            “Politics aside, the festival lasts a week. Everyone wears their finest, eats until they burst, and drinks themselves into early graves.” He held up a hand against his mouth. “Don’t tell the Matij that last one though.”

            “And there will be the mud race!” Altaf burst. “Every year Uncle Dasaf competes, but he never wins.”

            “Mud race?” Asan asked.

            “The name does it enough justice,” Dasaf laughed. “Except that all the men wear the vesture of their wives, sisters, or other female relatives.”

            Asan’s expression must have been amusing, because Altaf fell into hysterics.

            “The men dress like women and race in the mud,” Leyla clarified. “And the women do the opposite for the Festival of Milk. It’s one of the main events, and everyone comes to watch.”

            “But . . . why?” Asan asked.

            “I imagine its creator was very inebriated at the time of its invention,” Dasaf chuckled. “But it is great fun, even when every commoner puts it upon himself to wrestle me down. There is very little running, you see. Most of it is just falling and flopping around like a newborn calf.”

            Asan couldn’t imagine commoners doing such a thing to their leader, but it sounded like such fun that he grinned and nodded.

            “Asan should try it,” Altaf suggested.

            “Yes, he could borrow an outfit of mine,” Leyla offered, looking more sincere than her words implied.

            “I thought you were lending me something? I told you to make it slimming.”

            Altaf laughed again, and Asan shook his head before serving tea to Leyla and Malika. Leyla thanked him unnecessarily, and even Malika gave him a brief nod. Maybe she was finally accepting his presence, even if that acceptance was more like tolerance.

            After Dasaf and his family dispersed, Asan went to work cleaning up the dishes they left behind. Dasaf had left his outer robe draped over a cushion, so Asan folded it over his arm, running a thumb along the silk border. It was a beautiful garment, and of course Dasaf left it lying around as if it were a common cloak. He was squatting on the floor looking it over when he noticed a shadow cross the doorway.

            Shallaf stood at the other end of the dining room, dressed in dark green and looking no more cheerful than he did any other day. He was staring right at Asan, which led Asan to believe he suspected him of some crime.

            Asan quickly stood and bowed, hoping obsequiousness would ingratiate himself with Shallaf. He braced for any future abuse, because Shallaf was a big warrior, deft with a sword and wise enough to be Dasaf’s right-hand man. Considering what Shallaf had seen earlier in Dasaf’s garden, Asan wasn’t sure what to expect.

            “Asan, is it?” Shallaf asked.

            Asan nodded.

            Shallaf crossed the room, and Asan couldn’t help but take a step back, his eyes darting to the two scimitars at Shallaf’s waist. Shallaf seemed to notice the glance but didn’t react to it.

            “Is there any tea left?” Shallaf asked.

            Asan nodded and darted out of the room to retrieve some. When he returned, Shallaf had collapsed onto the cushion Dasaf had occupied. He merely held up his cup when Asan approached, then sipped it as he glowered into the distance. Finally his eyes darted to Asan, who didn’t know if he should leave or not.

            “Sit. There.” Shallaf pointed to the cushion at his right.

            Asan practically fell onto the cushion, clutching his hands tightly together in his lap. He looked away as Shallaf stared at him, though he didn’t miss the scrutinizing once-over. It didn’t seem appreciative, which helped allay some of Asan’s fears.

            “I can see why he likes you,” Shallaf said, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Once again his eyes flickered from Asan’s folded legs to his eyes. “Young, handsome, exotic. What’s not to like?”

            Asan turned his gaze on his lap.

            Shallaf reached across the table and snatched up a mint leaf to stir his tea. He didn’t speak for a while, letting Asan sweat in the silence.

            “I am not his father,” Shallaf finally said. “I am barely his friend, so I have no control over his actions. But perhaps I can implore you.” His gaze hardened. “You are _faskii_ , a servant of Mulli. You are a mere curiosity to him, a distraction. It is not what he needs when he has a nation to run, so I suggest you resist any advances he might make. It will lead nowhere, and you’ll only keep him from marriage longer.”

            Asan wasn’t sure how to react, as he’d never been in such a situation before. He didn’t know if Shallaf was jealous, as Shallaf wore no expression, and his voice was even, as if he were describing the weather. A small part of Asan was thrilled that Shallaf felt threatened at all, but of course that was ridiculous. Shallaf was a warrior, and threatening a warrior was not an act of intelligence for a servant.

            “I don’t particularly trust you either.” From within his robes, Shallaf pulled a long dirk, the sunlight catching off its edge. Asan gulped and leaned away, fighting the urge to flee. He learned from Messenger that predator instinct was only triggered when the prey ran. “A Hahnar beyond the mountain cannot be trusted, let alone a _faskii_ , and it is dangerous for Dasaf to keep one so close to him, especially one allowed entrance to his bedchamber where he sleeps.”

            Asan finally found his voice. “I never—”

            Shallaf’s hand darted out, grabbing a fistful of Asan’s caftan before Asan could so much as exhale in shock. Shallaf jerked Asan forward, the tip of his dirk digging into the underside of Asan’s chin. Yet Shallaf’s expression did not waver from its usual calm, and perhaps that was what frightened Asan the most.

            “I would give my life for the Sumas and his family,” Shallaf said. “And I will just as easily take one. Do you understand me?”

            Asan nodded minutely.

            Shallaf shoved him back and slid the dirk back beneath his robes. He returned to his tea as if nothing had happened, leaving Asan to quiver with fear. His legs ached to run, but he stayed in hopes of appearing brave. He did not rise until Shallaf turned to him.

            “Fetch me some bread and fried eggs if you can. Something quick.”

            Asan nodded, then scrambled to his feet and darted out of the room. He didn’t stop sweating until he was halfway to the kitchen. He met Fasa there, speaking to a Hahnar girl in hushed tones and a smile. She seemed very perfunctory with the male servants, but it was as if she were sisters with all of the maids. Asan blamed it on her poor history with men.

            Fasa looked up when Asan approached, then frowned.

            “What happened?” she asked in Aillic. She reached out and put a hand on Asan’s forehead. “You are as pale as a sheet.”

            _Fried eggs and bread to the family dining room_ , Asan signed.

            “What to the dining room?” Fasa knew some signs, not all.

            “Fried eggs and bread,” Asan forced out.

            “You should rest,” Fasa said. “You look sick.”

            Asan nodded and drifted away, ignoring the stares of the Hahnar servants. He moved as if through a fog, his feet churning as his thoughts grew cloudy. He hadn’t much of an idea where he was going until he arrived at the camel paddock, where Nutmeg was resting with the others. He darted out to her and dug his face into her fur, to which she responded by nuzzling his hair.

            After a long time spend with his camel, Asan felt like a coward. He was so easily unnerved by Shallaf, and yet he had tackled Dasaf and risked his life for Raheed, not to mention his entire childhood spent avoiding beatings. The only explanation he could conjure was that Shallaf was the only one outside of Dasaf who knew Asan’s “secret”, and Asan had been threatened because of it. Once again he cursed God for making him this way. If he could only look upon women with such appreciation he could maybe kiss Fasa or another Hahnar servant and no one would think anything of it.

            _It’s not my fault_ , Asan thought testily. _Dasaf sought me out_. True, Asan sometimes harbored less-than-holy thoughts about Dasaf, but he was used to curbing his desires by now. He had been in love with Raheed for _years_ and Raheed still had no clue. He’d been planning on it being the same way with Dasaf, but there was no denying that Dasaf felt a way for Asan that even Shallaf could see.

            With a sigh, Asan released Nutmeg and decided to search for Leyla. Perhaps he could get a key to Raheed’s room and spend a few hours with him. Once again, Raheed was his refuge, the one man who kept him safe from all the rest. Almost ten years later, nothing had ever changed.

 

* * *

 

             “I don’t know why I have to wear this,” Altaf whined to his mother, Leyla, and Dasaf as they walked in the procession to the temple. Altaf was dressed in his finest caftan and robes, heavily stitched with gold embroidery. It was a fine thing to look at, but not so much to wear. “It’s itchy.”

            “You are going to the temple. You must dress nicely for God,” Malika replied.

            “I don’t see why. God sees me piss. What does he care about my clothes?”

            Dasaf laughed, then stopped when Malika sent him a glare. She then reached out and latched onto Altaf’s ear, dragging him toward her.

            “Ow! Mama!”

            “Apologize, now.”

            “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry for swearing.”

            Malika let go of him, shooting one more look at Dasaf as a warning. Dasaf cleared his throat and hoped no one had seen. The procession consisted of several thousand, so a short scuffle would have gone unnoticed.

            “He learns it from _you_ ,” Leyla whispered in Dasaf’s ear, taking his arm as they walked. Normally Dasaf would have ridden his horse so far, but the walk to the temple was sacred. Men who rode were said to consider themselves above God, and it was looked upon with scorn.

            “Good. If he learned it from Malika, I’d be jealous.”

            Leyla snickered. “Let us pray for whatever future children you may have.”

            “Ah, well, at least they’ll be good-looking.”

            Leyla covered her mouth with a hand, nudging him in reprimand. “Don’t make me _laugh_ , Dasaf. This is a somber affair.”

            “God needs a sense of humor.”

            “Shush!”  
            “Leyla,” said a stern voice from behind them. Leyla and Dasaf turned at once, looking upon the frowning face of Leyla’s mother, who walked only two paces behind them. “Act your age,” she said.

            “Yes, honored mother,” Leyla replied, but when she turned she shared a smirk with Dasaf.            

            After reaching the temple, Dasaf and his family removed their shoes, then climbed the stairs to the balcony overlooking the minbar where the High Khalkar sang his opening prayer. Altaf kept wiggling where he knelt, though he stopped when Malika smacked him upside the head.

            After the prayer, those in the lowest tiers were asked to come forth and kiss the Scorpion Stone, which was said to bring in the season rains. When nearly everyone had bowed before it, Dasaf and his family finally rose, descending the staircase and stepping quietly through the middle of the masses to kiss the Scorpion Stone, a flat and square rock that was cemented into the wall. The scorpion was a figure of both awe and terror amongst the Hahnars. He represented God’s wrath, and to anger it was to bring Death upon yourself. It was why all Hahnars wore scorpion pins upon their breast. Anger a Hahnar and you were nothing more than a corpse waiting to die.

            After kissing the stone, Dasaf and his family were asked to raise the Second Prophet’s prayer for the evening. Altaf had luckily gotten his singing voice from his mother, as Dasaf’s notes were always flat. Afterward, Dasaf returned to the balcony for the rest of the service.

            Once the final prayer was sung, the masses wandered out of the building. Out in the temple plaza, well-wishers immediately swarmed Dasaf. He knew only some, but he treated each with the grace and kindness that his brother never had. Just being able to remember the name of a daughter or son endeared many to him, and some older women would go so far as to grasp his hand in gratitude. When Dasaf was able to break away, he spotted a gaggle of giggling young women, looking at him over their shoulders and then quickly averting their gazes when they caught him noticing. When a few tried another glance, Dasaf tossed them all his best smile, and they nearly fell upon themselves with glee.

             “You’re insufferable,” Leyla muttered nearby, and Dasaf chuckled.

            “I can’t help it if I’m handsome.”

            After sharing some conversation with peasants, merchants, and midwives, Dasaf followed the trickle of folk heading several blocks away to the central plaza, where a long pit fire was dug to cook the twenty goats that had been fattened for the occasion. Haadi had always made his appearances as brief as possible, claiming distaste for the plebian nature of the event. However, Dasaf was never one to reject good food, and he found the company refreshing. Away from the watching eyes of his family and advisors, Dasaf could be himself more with peasants than with nobles.

            Dasaf slipped an arm around Altaf’s skinny shoulders before entering the plaza, and when he did, a cry went up in greeting. An old man with missing teeth dragged a stubborn goat toward him, grinning the whole way. When he reached Dasaf, he performed an elaborate bow that defied his age.

            “ _Honored Sumas_ ,” he said elegantly. “Shall you be the first one to make the sacrifice?”

            “It would be my pleasure, Katar.”

            The man’s grin stretched so wide across his leathery face that his eyes nearly disappeared beneath folds and wrinkles. “You remember my name, Honored Sumas.”

            “Of course I do. You bring these goats every year.”

            “You shall be the first Sumas to ever speak my name.”

            “Well.” Dasaf turned to Altaf, whose eyes glittered with alacrity at the starting celebration. Some men across the plaza were tuning their instruments, and children were chasing each other across the cobblestones, squealing and whirling as they circled the pit fire. “Altaf, this is Katar. Katar, this is Darim Altaf.”

            Katar bowed low. “It is an _honor_ , future Sumas Darim.”

            “There. Now two Sumases will speak your name, Katar.” He withdrew his dagger from his belt and held out a hand. “Now, hand me that goat.”


	15. The Matij

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcmRJKK8l-8)

 

            Sometimes if he strained his ears enough to make his head hurt, Raheed could hear music in the distance. The last time he’d heard such merry tunes was in the White House, and he didn’t like being reminded of that place, nor the beautiful woman he’d come to love there. He wondered what had become of her. She could have died from her injuries, and the thought still made Raheed sick.

            In his cell it was completely black. There _was_ a small window, but Khamal nights were no more bright than those in the desert. At least he could hear the horses nearby, which comforted him. The smell of their hides and the sound of their snorts rooted him in reality at least.

            Raheed closes his eyes. He would kill a sheep for some wine or _arak_ right now. Better yet, he’d kill a Hahnar. Hell, he’d kill _anything_ if it made him dizzy for an hour or so. How desperately he wanted to forget.

            Raheed crawled out of his bed and felt his way along the floor with his bare feet. He was still weak, but he could rise from his bed now. He had explored every inch of his new cell in the light, enough to know that a scorpion shared the left upper corner of the room. Raheed steered wide of its nest, though sometimes he felt little legs crawling up the inside of his thigh. He truly hoped he was imagining that.

            Raheed made his way to the window and stood on his toes in hopes of seeing out. All that greeted him was a wall of dried mud and an outhouse. He recognized the patterns of the stars, but that was the only comfort granted him.

            A shadow flickered in the corner of his vision, and he sought its source. For a while he thought that perhaps a bored mind had conjured it, but no, there was a figure staggering his way. Probably some drunk stable boy on his way to take a piss. Raheed crouched down, because he didn’t want any Hahnars knowing of his presence. Surely they’d throw snakes through the small window above him, thinking it all a good laugh at the expense of Raheed’s life.

            By the time Raheed had made it back to his bed, the door jerked and the lock rattled. Raheed twisted, then winced in pain. He had no sword, not even a pin or sharp rock. Maybe he could toss them into the corner and let that scorpion do his work for him. . .

            The door jolted open. Raheed nearly charged at it before realizing who it was.

            “Leyla?” he asked.

            “Hello.” Her voice was odd and breathy.

            “Are you inebriated?”

            “Slightly. Here. I brought some flint. Just . . . give me a moment to light . . .”

            Raheed scrambled through the dark. “Give them to me before you burn yourself.”

            “I’m not going to burn mys—” There was a flash of a flame, and Leyla yelped, dropping it. Raheed felt around for the single candle she’d been carrying, holding it steady so that she could light it. With the light of the candle, he was able to see the high points of her features, though her face looked ominous in such thick darkness.

            “What are you doing out here?”

            “I don’t know,” she answered with a sigh. “I—I thought—I don’t know.”

            “You didn’t happen to bring any wine, did—” He stopped when she held up a goatskin pouch, then smiled. “Oh Leyla. You truly are a goddess.”

            “I am tired of drunk men grabbing at me.” She turned and yanked the door shut. Raheed wondered if he could dart through it and escape. Surely Leyla wouldn’t be able to stop him. He’d mull on it. For now, he wanted some wine.

            After taking a long swig, Raheed sagged against the wall. “Thank you.” He handed it back to her. “Since when do women of your stature get drunk?”

            “I’m not _supposed_ to be drunk. I snuck off with some of it. I told everyone I was going to bed.”

            “You are a drunk and a liar.” Raheed chuckled. “I like you more every day.”

            “Don’t you start.” Leyla crossed the room, nearly vanishing into the shadows before collapsing onto the side of his bed. “I only came here because you’re one of the few who can’t lecture me about drinking wine.”

            Raheed wanted to sit at her side, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, so he sank to the dirt floor across from her. He passed the goatskin pouch back to her, and she took a healthy swig.

            “I _could_ lecture you.”

            “You won’t.”

            “No. I won’t. I’ve seen women do far more scandalous things.”

            Leyla was silent as she took several more sips from her pouch. Raheed wished he could see her better, but all he could really make out was the glitter of the gold jewelry and the flash of her eyes. He did notice that her head was free of her scarves, veils, and headdresses. He’d never seen a woman without long hair before, but then again, he’d never seen a Hahnar woman with a bare head before.

            “Do you see me like those women?” Leyla finally asked. “Those women you’ve . . . what’s the Aillic word for it . . .?”

            “Fucked?”

            Leyla snorted. “Yes, I recall Dasaf teaching me that word.”

            “No, I don’t. You are Hahnar.”

            “I don’t see how that makes any difference.” Leyla shifted. Clearly she was inebriated, or they would probably not be having this conversation. “Have you not met any Hahnar whores in Ayllamal? Isn’t it the largest city in the civilized world?”

            “I’m sure there are Hahnar whores, but I have not seen any. I never went looking.”

            “How many whores have you . . . foo . . .”

            “Fucked.”

            “Yes. This word. Fucked.”

            Raheed shrugged. “Many.”

            “Ah.” She tossed the goatskin pouch at him. “Why?”

            “ _Why_?”

            “Why fuck whores?”

            “Because it is easy. Because whores are cheap, and they helped me forget who I was and what I did for a night.”

            “Did you ever care about any of them? Outside of this Malli.”

            Raheed drained some wine into his mouth before answering. “Not really. I’m sure they didn’t care about me, and that _includes_ Malli.” Raheed leaned his elbows on his knees and ran a hand through his hair. It had grown long, as had his beard. He’d pass for a cleric if he returned to Ayllamal at this moment. “I am a fool who pays women to lie to me and then believes the lie.”

            “Why?”

            Raheed shrugged. “I suppose you go through your whole life looking for a woman to love you. My mother never did or else she wouldn’t have given me to the Mulli army. I can’t be married, can’t have children. I suppose I wanted a love that _meant_ something.” A strange humorless smile crossed Raheed’s face. “I’m wiser now. The only thing that means _anything_ to a Mulli soldier is staying alive. Our lives are all we really have.”

            “Somewhere I heard or read that Mulli soldiers could not marry, and I thought it was so sad.” She hunched her shoulders around her neck and squeezed her arms between her legs. She had no cloak, and the night was cold.   

            “I have blankets,” Raheed offered.

            Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. She dug through his tattered blankets and drew the heaviest one around herself. She looked younger now, like a girl bundled in her father’s robes.

            “You shouldn’t feel pity for us. We kill your people,” Raheed said.

            “Have you?”

            “Yes. Well. Hahnars beyond the mountain at least.”

            “Do you hate Hahnars?”

            “Some. I don’t hate you though.”

            “I don’t hate you either.” She reached for the pouch, and Raheed gave it to her. “I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe I feel sorry for you. Maybe it’s because I like your servant. Maybe it’s because you are so _handsome_.”

            “You admit this to a man who hasn’t had a bath in at least four months.”

             “I could arrange one.”

            “Would you be offering it then?”

            Leyla giggled, which Raheed wasn’t expecting. It wasn’t that she lacked a sense of humor, but she always struck him as reserved.

            “I think Asan would be giving you the bath.”

            “I’d rather have you,” Raheed said without thinking. He wanted to blame it on the wine, but he hadn’t had nearly enough to affect his common sense. He opened his mouth to apologize, but seeing that Leyla did not look horribly offended or scandalized, he clamped his lips shut.

            Leyla leveled him with a blank look for a moment, then asked, “How much does a whore cost?”

            “You are very interested in whores.”

            “I have never met one.”

            “I’m sure you have. You just didn’t know it.”

            “How much?”

            Raheed shrugged. “I do not know Hahnar coinage.”

            “How is a price determined?”

            Raheed didn’t really want to keep talking about this, but he humored her. “Location. You’ll pay more for a woman in Ayllamal than a tiny border town. Looks, of course. A beautiful woman is worth twice that of a plain girl, if not more. Virgins are particularly expensive, but I’ve never seen the lure in a virgin, so I’ve never bedded one. Age. Younger girls make more than older women.”

            “If I were a whore, how much would I be worth?”

            Raheed sighed and stood, crossing the room and standing before her. “I think you have had too much. Perhaps you should get home before you fall asleep and I am blamed for destroying your honor.”

            Leyla leaned back to glare at him. “I asked you a question.”

            “I’m not answering it.”

            “You’re my prisoner. You must answer my question.”

            “Why? Why do you want to know?”

            “I am curious.”

            “It is not something to be curious about. I don’t want to talk about whores. It is not a topic fit for a woman.”

            “So women can _be_ whores but women can’t _talk_ about whores? How chivalrous of you to protect me from a plight of my own kind. I’m sure your hired women swooned over such foresight.”

            Raheed would have liked to toss her out manually, but he knew touching her would be a mistake. “What do you want, Leyla? What are you trying to prove?”

            “I just want to know what I’m worth. If Mulli soldiers come and break through our walls, how much should I charge?”

            Raheed stared at her in shock for a moment before sliding down onto his knees in front of her. He was awarded with a twinge in his abdomen, but he ignored it.

            “Leyla . . .”

            “It could happen, and I’d rather give it for a price than have it taken from me. You said virgins are expensive. I bet I could fetch a high—”

            Raheed clamped a hand over her mouth, which was not a wise reaction but he couldn’t help himself. When she struggled under his grip, he immediately released her, though his skin was still crawling from what she’d said.

            “Does it upset you?” Leyla hissed. “Why should it? Men like _you_ would be buying, so why do you care?”

            “Why are you saying this? Why are you angry at me?”

            “ _Why_? Because you are Mulli! Because Mullis ruin everything they touch! If they cannot buy it, they will steal it. I—” She cut herself off, then bowed her head, sniffing. In the candlelight, Raheed saw the glitter of a tear, but when he reached toward her, she shot him down with a glare.

            “Why did you come here?” she asked. “You knew you would be killed.”          

            “To save Asan.”

            “No. There must be another reason.”

            “An insidious reason? No.” Raheed sat across from her, laying the candle gently on the ground so that the wax would not drip onto his fingers.

            “Why are you kind to me?”

            “Because you haven’t given me reason not to.”

            “You think I am pretty.”

            “Yes.”

            “That is why you are kind to me.”

            Raheed sighed. “No, it’s not.”

            “What do you _want_?”

            “ _Nothing_ , Leyla. For God’s sake. You don’t have to believe me, but don’t patronize me with such a question.”

            Leyla looked away, biting her lip. When she turned back, she still appeared angry, even if it was a desperate sort of anger. “My whole life I have been told that Mullis are brutal savages, horrible and ugly and ignorant. So why . . .?” Slowly she reached out, her fingers brushing against his jaw. “Why are you like this?”

            Raheed cradled her hand in his, gently pulling it from his face and pressing her fingers against her palm. Then, against all common sense, he kissed her knuckles, holding her gaze. The flame of the candle left tiny reflections in the whites of her eyes and the gold of her earrings, making her appear more demon than woman. They stared at one another for a long intense moment, her hand hot in his. His gaze briefly dropped to her full lips, which parted slightly as she watched him. Then, as a sudden cold wind whistled outside, she yanked her hand from his as if he’d burned her with the candle wax.

            “Leyla—”

            She fought off the blanket around her, capping the wine as quickly as she could. No longer would her eyes meet his, and he wondered if he’d ruined his relationship with the one person who didn’t hate him in Khamal.

            “You stay there,” Leyla snapped when he tried helping her to a stand. “I shouldn’t have come.”

            Raheed attempted to apologize again, but she cut him off and turned away, not wishing to hear it. In a flurry, she rushed to the door, slamming it behind her without a single glance back. He heard the click of the lock before he sank down to his mat. She had left the candle burning on the floor, so picked it up and moved to the room’s sole window. He watched her shuffle away through the inky black night until she vanished from view.

            When he turned, he saw a small black figure sitting on his pillow, its shell catching a hint of the candlelight.

            “Wonderful,” Raheed muttered, plopping down in the dirt where he stood, resting his head against the wall. He’d seen soldiers die within minutes upon receiving the stab of a scorpion, so he wasn’t going to take his chances. Then again, maybe death wasn’t such a grim end compared to the uncertain future set before him.

            As Raheed drifted to sleep, he dreamed of scorpions, endless desert and a woman in black, turned away from him and toward the rising sun. But she was not Malli.

            He didn’t dream of Malli anymore.

 

* * *

 

            The Matij chief was a large man, older than Dasaf had thought but no less stalwart for it. He rode atop an enormous camel, though the animal wore little adornment, just like its master. Chief or no, Jakil was not a man to invest in pretty baubles. The only jewelry he wore was the teeth of the men he had conquered, and perhaps a petrified finger or two.

            No matter what slain enemies he had hacked apart, Chief Jakil dismounted and greeted Dasaf with a smile when Dasaf crossed the plaza to meet him.

            “It has been too long, brother,” Jakil said, embracing Dasaf firmly before pulling back, keeping one hand on Dasaf’s arm. “My soothsayer insists that this year will be more fruitful than most.”

            “I’m afraid no nomad knows much about anything when it comes to farming, Honored Jakil.”

            Jakil laughed. He was both like his late father and completely opposite. Jakil Multeef had been a stern man, a separatist who believed in rigid order and infrequent contact with his sister nation, Khamal. He had been a very typical Matij chief, preferring the wasteland where he could rule without challenge. His son Jakil Ultar had all of Jakil Multeef’s fierceness but none of his love for solitude. Sometimes he would conjure reasons to visit. Dasaf was not yet sure if he liked the man. There was a sinister layer beneath that smile, and Dasaf hoped he’d never see it—he rather liked all of his teeth inside of his own head.         

            “I am sorry to hear about your father,” Dasaf said. “May he be at peace with God.”

            “My father had no regrets except that his death was quiet. He would have liked to die hacking up some Mulli pigs.”

            “Where’s a Mulli when you need one, eh?”  
            Jakil chuckled, putting his arm around Dasaf’s shoulders. “Despite all of our differences, we kill Mullis together like brothers, don’t we?”

            Dasaf nodded, glancing at the Matij still slipping through the gate. Most of the men were smaller than their leader, as there was little to keep them alive in the vast desert save camel milk and snake meat. Despite their lean builds, you could never underestimate a Matij. They were hard people, and there was little else they enjoyed more than slitting throats of those they didn’t like. Two centuries ago had been the last time the Khamal and the Matij had fought, though Dasaf lived with the perpetual fear that one wrong word could start the conflict again. The Matij were a proud people, easy to insult and quick to violence. They had not much cared for Haadi, though they had never challenged him. They wouldn’t have dared, not when they were so occupied with lopping the heads off of Mulli necks.

            “Did you invite every Matij you could find?” Dasaf asked.

            “Ah, just my best men.”

            “ _All_ of these are your best men?”

            “Every Matij is a warrior, and every warrior is my brother. Many stayed behind to protect our camp, but everyone was invited.”

            “I don’t know how I will feed all of them.”

            Jakil laughed. “No worries, Sumas. We do not eat very much, and we do not drink. We could all use a bath, however. The bathhouses here are legendary, and we wish to partake.”

            Dasaf nodded. “What we have is yours, Honored Jakil. But first we must celebrate your arrival in the dining hall.” Dasaf strained his ears to hear the picking of strings in the distance. “Come. The party has already started.”

 

* * *

 

            “Leyla, sit straight.”

            Leyla threw a perturbed look at her mother before shifting in her seat, her lips curling into a frown. However, Mother was not yet done.

            “Malika,” she said. Malika turned, avoiding the stares of Matij men across the room.

            “Yes, Honored Mother?”

            “It is late. Perhaps Altaf should be taken to bed.”

            Malika glanced over at Altaf, who was eating with the men at Dasaf’s side. The Matij men had seemed to have taken a liking to him, but Malika knew how they were. It took them only moments to turn savage if they detected the smallest slight against them. Malika was almost glad she’d been banished to the women’s side of the hall. It was not the usual arrangement, but Matij were a very segregated people and thought their women almost as valuable as their camels. Malika hated their visits. She was _Suman_ , not some tavern whore to be stared at. And whatever attention she had, Leyla had it worse. Leyla had taken to covering her face with her veil in between bites of her meal, just to avoid the appreciative glances.

            “Malika,” her mother insisted again.

            Malika shared a look with Leyla, but Leyla offered no support. She merely stared down at her plate.

            “Yes, Honored Mother,” Malika said through clenched teeth. With grace at her command, she stood, running her hands along her plain white caftan—something a Matij would approve—and crossed the room to where groups of Matij men had congregated, smoking hookah and gorging themselves on sweets.

            Jakil Ultar was the first to notice her. He leaned back on his elbows, watching her in such a predatory way that she felt her skin prickle along her neck. She avoided his eyes as she turned to Dasaf, who was still laughing about something. For a moment she hated him, hated him for enjoying this man’s jokes and treating him like one of their own. Haadi would have barely tolerated his presence, because Haadi was suspicious of all who were not Khamal.

            “This is Haadi’s wife then?” Jakil Ultar asked, licking his fingers.

            “This is Suman Malika, yes. Haadi’s widow.”

            Jakil Ultar nodded, still smirking slightly. “We have met before.”

            “Yes,” Malika replied stiffly. She should have attached an _honored Jakil_ on the end, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. She felt no honor for him.

            “My memory is poor. I do recall your sister. Leyla, correct?”

            “Yes.”

            “I don’t forget a girl like that, of course.”

            “Dasaf.” Malika’s voice was sharp, icy. “I think it is bedtime for the young Sumas.”

            “What? Mama—”

            “Now, Altaf. It is much too late for you to be awake.”

            Altaf looked to Dasaf, as if it were up to him. He seemed to waver, which made Malika’s anger deepen. Surely he was not going to contest her authority over her own son.

            “Since when does anyone command the Sumas?” Jakil Ultar asked. “Let the boy do as he likes. When I was his age, I was killing Mullis, so there can’t be any harm in him being a little tired.” Snorting, the chief turned to Dasaf. “Women cling to whatever little authority they can wield, fearing the day they won’t have it.”

             “Excuse me, _Honored_ Jakil, but he is my son and I will command him as I like.” Malika knew she was pushing at what Matij would allow, especially coming from a woman. But her gaze on him did not waver, and for that she was proud. Let no one say that she did not learn some things from Haadi. “Altaf. Up. Now.”

            Altaf looked to Jakil Ultar, then Dasaf. Dasaf jerked two fingers, a motion for Altaf to rise. With a sigh of defeat, Altaf pulled himself to his feet.

            “No worries, Darim. When you are Sumas, no one can enforce a bedtime,” Jakil Ultar joked, though there was a hard edge to his voice. He did not like her defiance, but Malika didn’t much care how he felt. When Altaf was within reach, she curled an arm around his shoulders and walked him toward the hall door.

            When outside, Altaf began to complain.    

            “You’re _embarrassing me_ , Mama. I look like a fool now!”

            “In front of the biggest fool himself?” Malika laughed. “What tragedy. Let me weep for you.”

            “Jakil Ultar is a great man.”

            “Don’t trust a Matij any more than you would a starving dog.”

            “Uncle Dasaf—”

            “Your uncle does what he must to appease them. We cannot risk dissatisfaction with our Matij neighbors. It does not mean we have to like them.”

            “I like them. They are fierce, strong. I bet one Matij can kill at least ten Mullis.”

            “You think so? Did Jakil Ultar tell you that?”

            “Yes.”

            “The Matij are also liars.” She stopped, taking his arms in both of her hands. She ducked so that they saw eye to eye. It seemed like hardly a season ago when she had to kneel in order for them to be level. The speed at which Altaf grew frightened her, and she saw more of Haadi in him every day. She saw his strength, but she also saw his pride, and she wished it would remain dormant, at least until he matured enough to know how dangerous it could be.

            “Altaf,” she said sternly, “it is important that you trust _no_ one but your family and your people. The world is not a kind place, and the Matij are a mere product of it.”

            “If they are so evil, why do we dine with them? Why does Uncle Dasaf invite them to conversation and hookah?”

            “Because your uncle is a clever and knows that peace comes easier when shared between friends than when ended with swords. I don’t particularly agree with his methods, but he appeases them, and that is in our best interests.”

            “What would Papa have done?”

            “Your papa did not like Matij, almost as much as he didn’t like Hahnars beyond the mountain.”

            “Papa didn’t like _anyone_ ,” Altaf replied, which was very true for someone who had merely one foggy memory of his father, if it were even a true one and not imagined.

            “He liked you.”

            “I was a baby. You can’t hate a baby.” Altaf’s features softened. “Did he like you, Mama?”

            “Sometimes he did.”

            Altaf was relatively silent the rest of the way to the room. There was a servant waiting there to dress him and ready him for bed, so Malika left her son in the servant’s control, kissing his forehead before she left.

            “Remember,” she told him. “Trust only your family.”

            “And my people?”

            “Your people _are_ your family. But Matij are not your people.” She put a hand on his cheek briefly, then turned away, heading back the way she came.

           

* * *

 

            “I have an offer I want to make you, Dasaf. And I want it to be heard by all.”

            Dasaf provided Jakil Ultar a smile. “By all? Is that so?”

            “I would prefer to stand and do it. Give me a moment. I must prepare.”

            Dasaf was confused, but he let Jakil Ultar stand and slip away. He watched the chief bend low to talk to a few of his men. The men pushed themselves to their feet and vanished from the hall. When Jakil Ultar returned, he motioned for Dasaf to stand, then called for a servant.

            “Bring me some more honey,” he demanded. “My bread is too dry.”

            The servant bowed and rushed away to fulfill the request.

            “What is this about?” Dasaf asked.

            “You will see.” Jakil smirked, then moved toward the front of the room, a perplexed Dasaf trailing behind. When Jakil stopped, he clapped loudly to get the attention of all the others. No one was expecting such an action, so silence was quick to fall.

            “To both my people and Khamal, I extend my gratitude for this Festival of Honey and my invitation to it. The Matij people have always seen Khamal as a nation of courtesy and hospitality. At one point we may have been enemies separated by differences in dogma and culture. My father, Jakil Multeef was a man with many grudges, and I must apologize that he followed the old ways. However, as sad as my father’s death may be, I hope that it may bring a new era to our people, an era of peace and brotherhood. We were a family torn apart, and I seek to reunite it once again.” He lifted a hand to Dasaf, whose confusion had changed to concern. He had an eerie feeling that he wasn’t going to like whatever was coming next.

            “This is a time of war and tribulation. Mullis rattle at the bars of their cage, and I fear that a dark road lies before us. However, we shall find the guiding light, and we shall do so by becoming partners instead of enemies. What better way to do this than through blood? Why not bring two families together as one?” Jakil turned to Dasaf with a grin. “Honored Sumas, I would like to accept you as a brother, to join our tribes so that we may fight and _kill_ this Mulli predator that hunts us. Together, we will survive.”

            “Honored Jakil—”

            Jakil held up a hand to stop him. “Minab, bring Kalila forward if you would.”

            One of Jakil’s men shouted for Kalila, so a door swung open and a figure was ushered through. It was a woman draped entirely in veils, providing only a small square through which she saw through. The veils were decorated with silver coins that clicked together when she moved, but that was the only sound she made as she crossed the room, her slippers barely emerging from beneath her heavy robes. A Matij servant next to her carried a silver pot, its spout crafted to look like the head and neck of a camel. Dasaf knew what was inside: camel milk. It was one of the Matif’s main staples and provided heavy symbolic meaning.

            The servant and the woman stopped just in front of Jakil and Dasaf. The servant bowed and placed the pot beside the honey that Jakil had asked for. Dasaf sucked in a sharp breath, heart racing before it plummeted.

            “Honored Dasaf,” Jakil said with a smile. “I present to you my daughter in an offer of marriage.”

            If there hadn’t been a hundred eyes watching him, Dasaf might have reacted poorly. His eyes darted from Jakil to the woman, then back again.

            Jakil chuckled. “I see you are apprehensive! Don’t worry, my brother.” Jakil turned to the servant. “Pull back the veil and let him look at her. He wants to make sure he’s not marrying an ugly crone!”

            The servant pulled back the veil from the woman’s face, and Dasaf realized she wasn’t a woman at all. In fact, she was perhaps just a year or two older than Altaf. And if it could be worse than that, she looked utterly terrified, though she tried to hide it as she knelt, bowing her head in submission.

            “Well?” Jakil said. “If you do not like her, I have other daughters. But Kalila is the finest—young, beautiful, obedient. She will do you well, Honored Sumas. Her mother bore only sons before and after her, so I believe she shall do you the same.”

            Dasaf opened his mouth to speak, but he could not think of anything to say. His eyes were still riveted upon the young girl at his feet, her hands clenched in the folds of her robes.

            Finally Dasaf turned, his face twitching as he tried to smile. “I am greatly honored by such a generous offer, Shuma Jakil. It is—it is unprecedented, such generosity.”

            “I would like to put the old ways behind us, especially in the face of such dangers.” There was a hardness to him as he smiled. “Will you drink of the milk, Sumas Dasaf?”

            Every particle of Dasaf’s body screamed _no_. He didn’t even want to wed Leyla, and she was his best friend. He had nothing against the child, but she was a _child_. He had entertained Jakil all night; he couldn’t imagine having to do it more than twice a year, when they arrived for the seasonal festivals. There was nothing he could offer Kalila except perhaps the promise she wouldn’t be harmed.

              However, he knew what refusing Jakil would mean. Such an offense to such a vastly generous offer would not be taken well. The Matij would leave the city and never return, perhaps for another two hundred years. By then, the Mullis would have already invaded. Dasaf had to admit that they _needed_ an alliance with the Matij. The Matij were not asking for his allegiance to a king, nor were they asking Khamal to house their troops. All they wanted was a marriage, a symbol of brotherhood. To deny them that would doom the people he had sworn to protect.

            So Dasaf nodded.

            “Kalila,” Jakil said, voice sharp. The girl took the cup the servant had been carrying and filled it with the camel milk. Then she stood, still staring at the floor, and bowed low as she offered Dasaf the cup with both hands. Dasaf took it—making extra pains not to touch her—and drank it down. When he finished, Jakil handed him the jar of honey, and Dasaf gave it back to Kalila. Kalila put her lips the edge and tasted it.

            The hall erupted in cheers, at least from the Matij. Dasaf couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering to Leyla, who was looking on in horror. He attempted his usual smile, but it felt false, and she knew it.

            Jakil pounded Dasaf on the back, laughing. “Come here, brother! I wish to congratulate you!”

            As Jakil embraced him, Dasaf felt himself go numb. It was the only way he’d survive the night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's [soundtrack](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWdMaHr5tEM)

 

            Fasa felt rather indifferent toward many of the servants, but there was one girl her age she found particularly beautiful, even if the girl had a small gap between her front teeth and a slight stutter. Unlike the others, this girl Nuzhah also seemed to enjoy Fasa’s company, so while there were lulls during the Matij feast, Fasa and Nuzhah would spend time sitting on a bench just outside the hall, whispering lewd jokes and then laughing. Nuzhah had a fascination with Fasa’s hair, which Fasa didn’t understand.

            “You and I have the same hair,” Fasa told her.

            “Yes, but I’ve n-never grown it so long.” She reached out and plucked a curl. “I thought M-Mulli blood would make it flatter.”

            “I don’t have _Mulli blood_ ,” Fasa objected.

            “ _Faskii_ b-b-blood then.” When Fasa frowned, Nuzhah put a hand on Fasa’s thigh, and Fasa forgot to be angry with her. “I’m only curious.”

            Fasa smiled, slipping her fingers through Nuzhah’s. Fasa had always hated men’s hands—the way they grabbed her, the way they cupped her and fondled her and pushed her around. Perhaps that was why she loved women’s hands, small and soft and gentle. Nuzhah smiled, and Fasa returned it, wishing the night could last longer.

            Suddenly the door slammed open, and a girl in heavy white robes rushed through, cloaked completely save a slot for her eyes. It was such an odd sight that Fasa felt obligated to follow her.

            “What are you doing?” Nuzhah demanded.

            Fasa held a finger to her lips before rushing after the girl. It took a few strides before she heard the girl sobbing, and that was when Fasa chased her in earnest.

            The girl had run through two gardens before she paused and looked lost. That was when Fasa knocked on a nearby column, alerting her to her presence. The girl whipped around, her robes twirling in a circle around her.

            “Who are you?” the girl snapped, her accent different than those of Khamal.

            “Are you alright, _shuman_?”

            “Who are you?” the girl demanded again.

            Fasa bowed at the waist before saying, “Just a humble servant, _shuman_. May I help you?”

            “No, go away!” Then she sank onto a bench and broke into violent sobs that reminded Fasa of herself, years ago back when her views on fairness and the kindness of men were shattered.

            Fasa was not easily intimidated, and she crossed the garden to sit on the bench beside the girl.

            “Is there any way I can help, _shuman_?”

            “No,” the girl cried. “No, just leave me be.”

            Fasa sighed and moved to rise, but she caught movement along the veranda. At first she thought it was just a servant, but a glitter of earrings told her otherwise. Moments later, she recognized the figure as the Suman herself, Malika.

            The girl did not notice Malika’s presence, as the veil shielded her vision. However the girl’s sobs were loud enough to fill the entire garden, so Malika approached, her stride swift and purposeful. Fasa bowed her head in reverence as Malika crossed the path and stood before both of them. Everyone spoke as if Leyla were the most comely, but Fasa found herself more drawn to Malika, as she was the most powerful woman Fasa had ever met.

            “You are Matij,” Malika said, and the girl’s sobbing paused as she lifted her gaze to Malika. Her eyes widened, and she immediately dropped to her knees at Malika’s feet. Fasa sat back, shocked by such an action.

            “Forgive me, Suman,” the girl pleaded. “I did not see—”

            “Who are you, girl?”

            “Jakil Kalila, Suman.”

            Malika looked just as shocked as Kalila now. “ _Jakil_?”

            The girl nodded. “I am daughter of Chief Jakil Ultar, first daughter of his third wife Mufiah. I am sorry for my intrusion, I did not know—”

            “Rise for me, Jakil Kalila.”

            Kalila straightened, then rose to her feet, head still bowed. Malika reached out and pulled the veil from her face, folding it over the top of her head. The girl was probably thirteen, if that, but her face held the promise of great beauty. However, her eyes were red and swollen with tears, and the intense anguish across her features made Fasa’s heart hurt.

            “I did not know Jakil Ultar brought his daughter with him to this festival. It is customary for the Matij to leave their women at their camp.”

            Kalila nodded. “Yes, Suman. He brought me to wed your brother-in-law, Sumas Dasaf.”

            At this Malika’s eyes bulged. “ _What_?”

            “You did not hear? It just happened in the dining hall.”

            “I was walking with my son to his bedchamber. What came of it? Did Dasaf accept?”

            Kalila nodded once more, but her eyes filled up with tears again and she choked on a sob she was trying to hold back. Fasa wanted to take her hand and offer her some comfort, but she knew it wouldn’t be appreciated.

            “Sit,” Malika ordered. “Tell me why you are crying.” Malika turned to Fasa. “Fetch her some water and a bite to eat.”

            Fasa nodded. “Yes, Suman.”

            Then she darted away, eager to retrieve the water and bread so that she could return and see the outcome of such a conversation.

 

* * *

 

            “Tell me what troubles you, Kalila,” Malika asked as she sank down at Kalila’s side on the bench.

            Kalila shook her head. “I would be seen as ungrateful, Suman. I am of course honored by such an arrangement. No Matij girl before me has wed anyone outside of a chief.”

            “You sound like a politician.” Malika shook out her caftan before crossing her legs and leaning closer. “Be honest with me, child. Tell me why you cry.”

            “Because I am weak of heart, mind, and spirit.”

            “I do not believe that.” Malika sighed. “You do not want to marry my brother-in-law.”

            Kalila turned wide eyes to Malika, her mouth open to deny it. But she fell silent when Malika held up a hand and shook her head.

            “Don’t deny it. You forget that I was once a young bride myself, betrothed to a Sumas.”

            Kalila’s gaze fell to her lap, where she gathered the fabric of her robes in her twisting fists. “Forgive me, Suman, but you are Khamal. This is your home.”

            “This is true. I will not pretend to know what it is like to be threatened with marriage to a foreign nation. Yet Khamal and the Matij are not so different. Is that the only thing that upsets you so?”

            “I—forgive me, Suman—”

            “Kalila, nothing need be forgiven.” She reached out and touched the girl’s hand. She saw a bit of herself in this Matij girl, if she had been gifted with such a pretty face. Malika had cried as well before her wedding, though it had been more from nervousness than anything else. She _had_ wanted to marry Haadi, had volunteered, in fact. Haadi had been handsome and powerful, and she saw no reason why they shouldn’t be married. He had not been an easy man, but he taught her some things, like how not to cry.

            “He is a strange man. I am terrified.”

            Malika wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “That is alright. It is understandable.”

            The half-blood servant girl returned with food and water for Kalila, but Kalila barely touched it. The girl cried into Malika’s shoulder, and Malika rubbed small circles along her upper arm. She was a frail girl, much too young to be involved in the politics of men. In Khamal, there were wise women and Sumans, but the Matij did not promote any woman to a position higher than wife of a chief. This girl had probably never left her camp before.

            Finally Kalila inhaled a few heaving gasps to calm herself. She lifted her head from Malika’s shoulder, apologizing for the damp spot she left behind. Malika didn’t much care about that.

            “My father will beat me when he finds out I ran,” she whispered, running her fingers along the bottom of her eyes, where the kohl had begun to smudge.

            “He does not know you are here?”

            “I snuck away after I was taken from the hall. I’m sure my servants are looking for me, and when they find me they will tell him.”

            “Let me deal with him then.”

            Kalila was shocked. “Oh no, you mustn’t! He will not listen to you.”

            “He will listen to me. I am used to making dangerous men heed my words. And he will not dare harm me, in fear of Dasaf’s wrath.” Not that Dasaf had much wrath, but of all his faults, he did not allow harm to come to his family.

            Malika stood, pulling Kalila with her. They had only just left the garden when a Matij servant came rushing forward, terrified and out of breath. Her cheek looked swollen where someone must have hit her.

            “He will speak to you now, Kalila,” the servant said.

            Kalila looked at Malika, and Malika nodded. Together, they headed back to the hall.

            By now the feast was over and most of the Matij had left. They had set up camp in the main plaza, as they did not like to sleep indoors. Walls made them nervous, and perhaps rightfully so. Centuries ago Hahnars had locked them in houses and burned those houses to the ground. Ever since, the Matij lived in tents.

            Jakil Ultar stood near the front of the room, talking to several of his warriors, tall men draped in jewelry made from bones and worn cloaks stitched together from stolen clothing. Malika knew that most of it came from the Mulli men they had killed, then sewn into other designs to make it unrecognizable. As to the teeth around Jakil Ultar’s neck, there were Mulli skulls in the desert missing those as well.

            When he saw Kalila, his previously well-humored expression twisted into anger. He began to stride forward, then paused when he saw Malika at her side.

            “What is this?” he demanded.

            “It is nothing. Kalila needed a moment alone, that is all. I fear she might have lost her way.”

            “She is to stay where I command her to stay.” He turned to Kalila, whose head was bowed. “Do you wish to dishonor me and your future family?”

            Kalila shook her head.

            “There is no harm done, Shuma Jakil Ultar. I was happy to show her some of the gardens.”

            “Some strange men could have seen her.”

            “If she is to be Suman, strange men will continue to see her.” Malika lifted her chin in defiance. “Khamal ways are different to yours. Now, I need no apology from her, but I ask that she provide one to you and that this whole matter be dropped. No offense has been made.”

            “An offense to _me_ has been made. If I cannot command my own daughter—”

            “She is but a frightened child.”

            “She is of _Jakil_ blood. It does not curdle in fear.”

            “This is her first time away from home. She wandered around some gardens for a few minutes to compose herself. This is not an act of disobedience, and if you would like to yell about it, I would hope you’d do so at me. I will take on the burden of her crime, as I am a Khamal Suman, and women of my station do not quake before any man, Mulli or Matij.”

            She expected Jakil Ultar’s rage at this, as he had established himself as a man who did not particularly care for the opinions of women. But after staring at her a long moment, he nodded, the tension in his face draining away.

            “You are a Khamal Suman, this is true. I will look forward to your son’s rule, as he carries both your blood and that of your late husband. He will be fierce indeed.”

            “Then I ask that you let the girl be. Dasaf would say the same, were he here.”

            Jakil Ultar looked down at his daughter, who briefly met his eyes. He jerked his gaze to his left, a silent command to return to her servants in the back room. She darted away like a scared rabbit.

            “I apologize that she is so weak,” he said. “I picked her for beauty, not for bravery.”

            “A man who has not been trained to fight will not win a battle,” Malika replied. “If you excuse me, Shuma, I will be on my way.”

            At this, she turned on her heel and marched away. She did not know if Jakil Ultar would punish his daughter for her supposed transgression, but at least she might have instilled some confidence in the girl that she was not completely alone.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf poked at his food, once again trying to brace his stomach for what it did not want. He knew that his grandmother was watching him across the room, but lately he didn’t care a wit to what she thought.

            Asan entered carrying several plates of bread, but he did not look at Dasaf, and Dasaf did not look at him. It was probably for the best, as Dasaf’s mood would rival Haadi’s at the moment.

            “I think it is a good arrangement,” Rabida finally said as she ran a piece of bread along her empty plate, picking up whatever grease or sauce she could. “Better than we could have hoped for.”

            “I don’t wish to discuss it,” Dasaf muttered.

            “And when _would_ you discuss it?”

            Dasaf closed his eyes and didn’t answer.

            “It isn’t as if you  had any _other_ girl in mind.” Though he could not see her, she was sure that Rabida was looking at Leyla. Dasaf hated it when Leyla was brought into this, as if she had committed some sort of crime. She had done nothing save honor Dasaf’s wishes. She had offered to marry him, but he had refused her. Now he was regretting that, because as much as the idea of marrying her made his skin itch, now his option was ten times worse. A girl. _A little girl_. Damn the Matij and their honor. He wouldn’t drop a single tear if the Mullis wiped them out.

            “I did not see much of her, but she looked comely to me.”

            “That has _nothing_ to do with it,” Dasaf couldn’t help but reply, eyes sliding open so that he could glare at her.

            “I know she is Matij, but everyone has flaws, I suppose. I doubt she’ll be any trouble. Their men are as fierce as their women docile.”

            “I don’t want a _slave_ , Honored Grandmother,” Dasaf bit out. “And I don’t want a _child_ either.”

            “Oh, I’m sure she’s bled.”

            “My God, she is _Altaf’s age_.”

            Altaf had not spoken since the breakfast had began, sensing everyone’s dark mood. Now he hid behind a glass, sipping from it greedily to avoid his great grandmother’s stare.

            “I was fourteen when I wed your grandfather, Dasaf. It is not uncommon.”

            “Perhaps my grandfather had a stronger stomach then.”

            “You are being utterly ridiculous. This is our first chance to make amends with the Matij, right when we need it most. They can offer us valuable forces when or if the Mullis attack, and they will do so without requiring allegiance or fealty. Now I think it is time for you to _grow up_ and recognize that you are Sumas, and that you are the only Sumas in history to be so old and not take a wife.”

            “In six years I will not _be_ Sumas.”

            “In six years, many things can happen.”

            The door opened behind his grandmother. Malika stepped in, dressed in a vibrant orange caftan and looking oddly relaxed. The room was quiet as she sat at Altaf’s side. She briefly reached out to squeeze his shoulder, then accepted the meal that was laid before her by another servant.

            “I will marry her,” Dasaf said. “I have to, but that does not mean I have to be _pleased_ by it.”

            “The world does not revolve around your pleasure, and I think it’s time you’ve learned that.”

            “Mother,” Altaf asked, voice high with uncertainty. “May I be excused?”

            “Of course, dear.”

            Altaf grabbed one more piece of flatbread before darting out of the room.

            “I have been thinking,” Malika said, gently dabbing her bread into her bowl of garlic yogurt, “and perhaps I’ve come to a conclusion that will satisfy all parties.”

            “We need no _conclusions_. Dasaf knows what he must do.”

            “It seems he is not happy about it.”

            “What do you care?” Dasaf snapped at Malika. “Aren’t you going to lecture me about duty too?”

            Malika finally lifted her gaze. It was cool compared to the fire in Dasaf’s. “I suggest you be quiet and let me have my word. You may want to thank me.”

            “Dasaf,” Leyla said softly. “Let her speak.”

            Dasaf frowned but obeyed.

            “It is a very important marriage, to say the least. Perhaps the most prestigious arrangement Khamal has ever seen. I don’t see why it should go to waste on Dasaf.”

            “What is that supposed to mean?” Rabida asked sharply.

            “Dasaf will only be Sumas for six more years. Then Altaf will take his place, and Altaf will rule for as long as he lives. We have not yet decided upon a betrothal for Altaf, and to me it seems wise to ask the honored Jakil Ultar if he would reconsider and instead wait to marry his daughter to Altaf. This way she could remain Suman until her death.”

            The room was silent for a moment. Dasaf hadn’t expected to actually _like_ her plan. Generally Malika made decisions to spite him. However, Rabida was not so easily convinced.

            “Altaf will not be of age for six years. It is a terribly long time to ask Jakil Ultar to wait, and I don’t think he will. They marry their girls young, and that girl will be nearly twenty by the time Altaf is ready to marry her.”

            “This is true. But you can hardly contest that it is a wiser political move to marry one’s daughter to a lifelong Sumas than one who will only be in power for six years.”

            “Altaf will not like it,” Leyla said.

            “Altaf will be betrothed to a girl soon anyway, and he will not like that either. I have met this Kalila, have spoken to her. She seems to be a sweet girl with strong feelings, and I don’t think Altaf will find significant fault in her.”

            “And what of Dasaf? He is nearly thirty, without wife or heir. It is more urgent that he marry than Altaf,” Rabida argued.

            “That can be decided without holding the fate of a Matij girl hostage.” Malika took a bite from her bread. “Honored Grandmother, surely you remember what it is like to be a terrified young bride. This girl would much prefer Altaf, a boy her own age. If they marry, Jakil Ultar will get what he wants and we are saved the process of finding Altaf a future wife.”

            Leyla cleared her throat. “I agree with my sister. It is more wise to secure a marriage to Altaf, and I am certain the Matij will agree.”

            Dasaf did not want to speak, for he was sure his grandmother would contest anything he said in agreement with Malika. He wanted more than anything for her idea to take hold, as it would save him a marriage while also maintaining good relations with the Matij in their time of need. He didn’t care to pass on unwanted arrangements to his nephew, but Malika was correct—Altaf would have to marry a girl not of his choosing anyway, just as Darim Haadi and Darim Zhad had before him.

            “Well, Dasaf?” his grandmother asked. “You are Sumas. You do as you like.”

            Dasaf took a sip of his tea, taking his time to conjure a properly worded answer. “I agree with Malika.”

            “Then it will be done,” Malika said. “And may we enjoy the rest of this week’s festival in peace.”

 

* * *

 

            Asan watched a procession of Matij pass the gates on their way to the center plaza, where all the main festivities were hosted. The servants had been talking about it since the festival began three days ago, or so said Fasa. Apparently it was not the sort of event barred to those of lower status, and by the time the sunset, the alcazar was nearly empty, save some guards and lizards. Fasa had already left with her new friend Nuzhah. Fasa had invited Asan despite Nuzhah’s obvious disdain, but Asan shook his head with a smile and offered to keep watch over the alcazar. Only when they both vanished from view did he drop his smile and sigh. He knew he didn’t belong, and as much as he wanted to explore the city of Khamal and the festivities that had the servants in such sunny moods, he knew that he’d be stared or ignored. It wasn’t worth the trouble.

            Most of the camels were gone from their usual paddock, though the few who remained were sleeping. Asan had hoped to spend some time grooming Nutmeg, but he didn’t want to wake her. Raheed would find Asan’s consideration funny, and Asan imagined what he might say—“She’s just a camel, Asan. I don’t think she cares if you wake her up”—but Asan let her be anyway. What he really wanted to do was visit Raheed, but the room was locked and those with keys were nowhere around. So Asan went to visit Ahmbra, as she was the next closest thing.

            Asan had read that Hahnars did not keep horses, but once again it was an error. There were not as many horses as the Mullis might have kept, but Dasaf and all of his more trusted men had two or three. On his way to Ahmbra’s paddock, he came across a dark bay he recognized as Dasaf’s. The bay had his head over the tall fence, looking at Asan hopefully. With a laugh, Asan offered his empty hand, which the horse inspected with its lips before snorting with disappointment.

            _Tomorrow I will bring you a treat_ , Asan promised the stallion as he stroked its long forelock.

            The horse looked over Asan’s shoulder, so Asan turned. A stable boy rushed over, about the age Asan was when he met Raheed for the first time. The boy began to unchain the gate, paying no attention to Asan.

            The boy took the stallion out of his small paddock and began to lead him away, so Asan followed. To Asan’s knowledge, no one rode this horse save Dasaf, but he’d thought Dasaf and his family had already left. He had only seen Dasaf once for the past few days, when he served his breakfast. Dasaf had been in a bitter mood, and Shallaf’s words still circled Asan’s thoughts, so he kept his distance. Dasaf hadn’t even seemed to notice him anyway.

            The horse was saddled and bridled, its tack more formal than usual with large gold tassels and bells hung from its reins and saddle skirt. Asan kept to the shadows, which wasn’t hard when night lingered so close. Finally the horse was taken from the stables and led in the opposite direction. Asan turned to follow it by rounding the stable building, but he practically slammed into someone else. At first he thought it was a stable hand, but his drapery was too fine. Asan took a step back and realized it was Dasaf.

            There was a second of fear, as Asan expected Dasaf’s sour mood from that morning. Instead Dasaf was smiling at him, all of his usual cheer restored. Asan smiled back nervously before noticing Shallaf just behind him. Dasaf might have recovered from his mood, but Shallaf’s was predictably grim. Asan’s smile fell, and he began to think of ways to excuse himself.

            “What are you doing out here?” Dasaf asked. To Asan’s surprise, he accompanied his question with a few signs he knew.

            “Visiting horses,” Asan replied.

            “Before you go to the festival, I imagine.”

            Asan shook his head. “Stay here.”

            Disappointment flashed across Dasaf’s face. “Why would you stay here?”

            Asan shrugged. It was difficult to explain, and even if it wasn’t, he didn’t think he should be telling the Sumas why anyway.

            “You will have to come. I’m not sure what types of festivals Mullis have, but I’m certain they pale in comparison.”

            Asan was unsure, and it must have shown, because Dasaf turned to Shallaf behind him.

            “Shallaf, ride on ahead. I will catch up with you later.”

            “Dasaf, I think it best—”

            “—that  you ride ahead.” Dasaf raised his eyebrows, as if daring Shallaf to defy him. Grumbling under his breath, Shallaf strode forward and took one of the horses they’d led around for him. He tossed himself in the saddle and kicked the horse into a canter, not looking back once.

            “He does not like me,” Asan said.

            “That is not an issue. Shallaf does not like anyone.”

            “You?”

            Dasaf laughed. “He hates me most of all! Come. I will call a horse for you and we will go down together.”

            “I take my camel.”

            “Your camel?”

            Asan nodded.

            “Very well. Someone will fetch your camel.”

            Minutes later, Nutmeg was brought to him, already saddled. She seemed happy to see him as she dropped her head and nuzzled his hair. He took her snout in his hands and planted a kiss on her top lip. When Asan noticed Dasaf looking on, Dasaf was grinning at the scene, already mounted on top of his dark bay stallion.

            “Let us ride then.”

            Asan asked Nutmeg to kush, and he clambered on. Slapping the reins against her neck, she rose to her feet and followed Dasaf’s quick-footed stallion at a leisurely pace. You could never rush a camel, Asan had learned. They went nowhere in a hurry.

           

* * *

 

            Dasaf watched Asan’s face as the entered the city, which was ablaze with lights and filled with music. Dasaf supposed Asan didn’t much care about the latter. The streets were clogged with vendors selling their wares, and performers stood on every corner, charming snakes, swallowing swords, and juggling torches of fire. Some of the performers had come from the city beyond the mountain, even a few from outlying _faskii_ villages. Seeing that he was not the only outsider here, Asan seemed to relax, his eyes darting from one spectacle to the next, mouth stretched by a smile. Dasaf laughed upon seeing it.

            A woman rushed up to Dasaf’s horse, bowing and offering pieces of honeyed lamb on thin reeds. Dasaf accepted one, then asked if she would provide another for Asan.

            “Try it,” Dasaf insisted. “It is the finest lamb you will ever taste.”

            Asan did so, and he smiled through the smears of honey and sauce it left around his mouth. Dasaf gave the woman a few coins, though she insisted it was no trouble. Yet when she took his money she did so with glee, and he saw respect in her eyes. He was not a the fearless Khamal warrior of legend, but he knew how to charm his way into people’s favor.

            The smell of incense and cooking meat grew dense, as did the crowds. Several dancers blocked the road, performing flips and leaps that defied gravity. Dasaf dismounted from his stallion and handed him over to one of the guards that lingered nearby whenever Dasaf left his alcazar. He asked Asan to dismount as well, so Asan did. Together they watched the acrobats, and when their act was finished, Dasaf clapped as loudly as the rest.

            Dasaf and Asan skirted around the acrobats and continued on their way. A man asked that the two play a game of skill, so Dasaf crossed the wide street to stand before his stall.

            “What is this game of skill then?”

            The man held up a long reed tube, then pointed across the ten-stride distance to a wood cutout of a man wearing a Mulli insignia. “You blow a dart through this tube and see if you can hit him wear it counts.”

            “Sounds easy,” Dasaf told Asan, taking the tube from the man and taking a deep breath before he set his lips on the end. He closed one eye to aim, then blew sharply. The dart flew, hitting the Mulli in the side.

            “I would like to try again,” Dasaf said, and the man bowed his head in acquiescence. Dasaf reloaded the tube and tried again. This time it struck the Mulli in the throat, and nearby spectators cheered.

            “Would you like to try?” Dasaf asked Asan, turning to him.

            Asan shook his head at first, then nodded. Dasaf clapped him on the back and handed him the tube. Asan might have been aiming elsewhere, but his dart ended up hitting near the Mulli’s groin. Everyone laughed, including Asan.

            “You know where to hit where it counts, eh?” Dasaf handed the tube back to the man. “Thank you, _shuma_. It is a marvelous game.”

            “Everyone gets a prize,” the man said, leaning down and picking up two bracelets made from grass. “My daughters made these and would be thrilled to know that the Sumas was wearing it.”

            “Your daughters?”

            “They are five and seven.”

            Dasaf chuckled and took the bracelets. “I would be honored! Let them know that they are the finest bracelets I have ever seen.”

            The man grinned. Dasaf helped Asan tie the bracelet around his wrist, and Asan assisted Dasaf with his. Then they were off again.

            They saw many booths and performers, but the one that seemed to impress Asan the most was the dancing camel. The camel was covered by a blanket of flowers, its face nearly invisible beneath clumps of tassels and bells and ribbons. Coins of gold were tied around its tail and ankles, and when the music played, the camel would snap its knees as if dancing to the music. Dasaf watched as Asan clapped and cheered with the rest, his face free of its usual timidity. When the song finished, Dasaf waved the camel and its owner over so that Asan could pet it.

            “It is a magnificent animal,” Dasaf told the man as Asan nodded.

            “Thank you, _Sumas_. I am honored.”

            The night grew late, and both of them had drank too much wine. Dasaf hadn’t planned on it, but people kept forcing it upon him, so he drank. He was considering heading back when he spotted a vendor selling caftans and tunics and robes. This was not a vendor he recognized, and the style of the garments seemed very Hahnar.

            “Are you from beyond the mountain?” he asked the woman behind an entire table loaded with every color of fabric one could hope to own.

            “Yes, honored Sumas,” she replied, coming forward and smiling. There was a gold ring in her nose, and attached to this was a chain leading to the multiple piercings in her ear. “I have come to sell my wares.”

            “Have you had much success?”

            “Some,” she replied. “Some cannot afford my price.”

            “Most certainly.” Dasaf looked down at the caftans set out before them, many glittering with gold and silver thread. He lifted one, a grayish-blue caftan with silver beads along the neckline, its fabric patterned with filigree. He unfolded it, considered the size, then asked, “How much?”

            “For you, Sumas? It is free.”

            “Of course not. You must manage some sum.”

            “Forgive me, Sumas, but you are better suited for a fiery color—red, orange, gold. Perhaps something else—”

            “This is not for me. What is your price?”

            The woman glanced at Asan, then back to Dasaf. “Forty, honored Sumas.”

            “Very reasonable, I think.” Dasaf dug into the purse at his waist and handed over the coins. “There you are. Don’t let anyone beyond the mountain tell you that Khamal is not generous.”

            Her smile was sly as she tilted her head. “I shall sing songs of praise, honored Sumas.”

            Dasaf walked away, then gestured to the guards that lingered far behind. They came forward with his horse and Asan’s camel, and together they headed for the alcazar.

            Dasaf and Asan left their mounts with a couple of servants before heading back through the alcazar gates. At last the guards left them, and they were greeted with the serenity of home. There was a sound of someone calling in the distance, but besides that it was only the wind and the silent stars.

            “Here.” Dasaf handed the caftan to Asan at last. “This is yours.”

            Asan’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

            “Don’t.” Dasaf held his arm out further, over which the caftan was draped. “Take it. I bought it for you.”

            Asan opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He stared at Dasaf a moment, then down at the caftan. Its silver threads glinted in the moonlight as Asan gingerly took it from Dasaf’s arm and clutched it to his chest.

            “Tomorrow you will wear it when we visit the festival again. I would like to see it on you.”

            Asan nodded, eyes still stretched in shock.

            Dasaf took Asan’s chin between his thumb and forefinger until Asan’s gaze met his. Then Dasaf leaned forward and planted a kiss on Asan’s forehead.

            “Tomorrow then,” Dasaf said softly. “I look forward to your company.”

            Then Dasaf walked away, leaving Asan standing there in the glow of moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leyla has a new look-alike: [Lupita Nyong'o](http://thenet.ng/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Lupita-Nyong-Photo-ghafla.jpg) She was in 12 Years a Slave, which I haven't seen, but going by her interview with Vogue, she's an interesting and intelligent person. So rarely can I find actors who "fit" with my characters. Usually I have to look up obscure models on Model Mayhem.


	17. The Mud Race

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's [song selection](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vV-cHJcsFEU).
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT CHAPTER FOR EVEN MORE SEXINESS. MORE AT ELEVEN.

 

            Leyla should have had higher spirits, but she could not join in on the gaiety with her usual fervor. She had suffered Dasaf’s ill temper that morning, then Dasaf’s grandmother after they decided to betroth Altaf to the Matij girl. She had crossed the path of some Matij men later, all of whom stared at her like some hungry dogs. She had been so out of sorts that she’d thought a nap might help, but it only made things worse.

            She was not a woman particularly prone to male charms. That had been more of Malika’s weakness growing up, though Haadi seemed to have cured her of it. No, Leyla had always been the sensible one, burying herself in herbal remedies and books and histories. Her mother complained that Leyla was not _flirtatious_ enough, but Leyla saw no point to such games. If one could not be frank with another, why bother at all? She thought the all of that eyelash fluttering and feminine tittering to be a waste of time and silly to boot. She hadn’t changed her mind on that, and now she was twenty-six, far past the usual age women were married. No man would have her now, and for the most part, she was glad of it.

            Yet sometimes she did feel a fleeting urge, and there were times loneliness lingered. Some stories told of love so great that time did not tarnish it. She never believed these stories, of course, but even she could not ignore the occasional desire for touch. When she was younger, she would lie at night and wonder what it was like to be touched by a man in a way that did not make her feel dirty or used. Women so rarely spoke of it, and when they did, it was in horror. _It hurt_ , Malika had told her after her wedding night. _I bled, and I mostly tolerated it_. After that, Leyla had not asked, and she assumed nothing had changed. Yet Malika, foolish Malika—she had loved Haadi. It amounted to nothing of course, but Leyla was confused to how one could love without the desire for touch. Leyla was quite the opposite. She thought herself rather in control of her facilities, but sometimes she suffered such a powerful ache between her legs that she would put her fingers there. But it wasn’t the same, and whenever she attempted, the lust fluttered away as if it had wings.

            Her nap had brought to her distasteful dreams. At first they had been terrifying. Jakil Ultar visited her, slamming his fist on her bedroom door and calling her _whore_ through the thick wood. She knew it was him, though she didn’t know _how_ , because after she screamed at him to go away, the pounding stopped. Wiping away her tears, she moved to the door, running her fingers along the handle and wondering if she should open it. Finally she found the bravery to do so, but it did not lead into a hall. Instead, it led into another room, this one dark and humid. A single candle burned, and someone was standing beside it. When he moved, the light danced off metal plates secured to his chest. _Armor_. And it was not Khamal armor, but the Mulli armor she’d seen illustrated in books. The red cloak was the most obvious, clasped with the Mulli insignia. He made an imposing figure, his clothes faded and covered in a film of sand. There was blood smeared across the pale fabric on one of his legs and along the blade of the scimitar he held in his hand. When she looked closer, she realized who it was.

            “ _You_ ,” she gasped, then turned to leave.

            “Leyla.”

            His voice stopped her, and she twisted to look at him. Despite his weapon and the armor he wore, his expression was soft, almost kind. Without wanting to, she took several steps toward him.

            “You do not belong here,” she’d said.

            He said nothing, just watched her with those dark eyes. Her fear evaporated, and she walked right up to him, though she didn’t know why. He dropped his sword, and suddenly his hand was on her, slipping beneath the neckline of her caftan and running along the outer edge of her breast. Her breath got caught in her throat, but she felt no guilt, no embarrassment. She grabbed his hand and forced it closer, inhaling sharply and closing her eyes.

            That’s when she woke up.

            She’d spent the rest of the day avoiding men, just because memories of that dream made her act oddly around them. Then she went to the festival, but it was crowded and noisy and all she wanted to do was sleep. She drank a little, but not nearly so much as she had last night. She had been hoping to see Dasaf, but she recognized only Malika and Altaf, who had merely waved and continued on.

            _I am done with this_ , she thought, marching up the hill toward the alcazar. _It is the same every year_.

            However, just as she was about to take the path to the alcazar, her feet took her down the path to the stables. She knew where she was heading, but she couldn’t stop herself until she was standing just outside the door to Raheed’s locked hut.

            She reached for the knob, then pulled her hand away. What was she planning to do? Chastise him for her own lewd dreams? Warn him to stay out of them next time? She snorted at the thought, and yet her free hand was fumbling for the key she kept around her neck. She slid the key into the lock, then slowly pushed the door open. Several candles were left in a box just outside the door, so she used some flint to light one before entering. The flame danced over the cracked walls, the uneven dirt floor, and then Raheed’s form on the floor, most likely sleeping. The blankets were pulled up to his collarbone, so she could only see the mop of wild black curls escaping from the top of his cocoon.  

            What was she doing here? She should leave.

            Leyla took a few steps forward, then shut the door with an outstretched foot. She closed the distance between the door and his bed before kneeling at his side. Perhaps she could take a look at his wound while she was here, just to make sure it was healing nicely. By now there was no danger, but she needed a purpose for her presence.

            Moving slowly, she pulled the blankets down his chest until they rested just below his waist. Her gaze started at the bandage, but then crept up his torso to the scar on his shoulder and the scattering of hair crossing his chest. Her hands went to the knot of the bandage, but then they began to follow her eyes, tracing the line of hair up his chest until they rested against his heart. He was hairier than any man she’d ever seen; she wondered if it was a _faskii_ trait. For some reason, it didn’t bother her. It might have on another man but . . . he had such a nice chest otherwise. . .

            Suddenly a hand grabbed her wrist, and she cried out. When she twisted, she saw Raheed’s eyes staring up at her, lips thin.

            “I’m—I’m changing your bandage,” she stuttered.

            Raheed looked down at the hand on his chest. “Odd way of changing a bandage.”

            “I . . .” Leyla’s voice died, and she realized she had no reply. Not a single word. All she could do was stare at him. Those eyes had been in her dream, and now the ache between her legs was starting again, and she was so overwhelmed by its intensity that she tore her wrist from his grip and grabbed his face with both hands.

            Then she kissed him.

            She had never kissed a man before, and she always thought that if she had, it would be the tentative, shy sort. This was not that. This was hard and fast, nothing she might have read about in a book, her lips lapping at his as if attempting to devour him. As if her actions were not shocking enough, soon his grip was on the back of her neck and head, his mouth twisting hotly against hers. She let out a rather high-pitched whimper, sliding a hand into his hair and holding it. Only then did she realize how much she’d been wanting to grasp it, run her fingers through it, as when else would she have the chance? All Hahnars shaved their heads. Raheed's hair was marvelous, greasy and untended as it was. It was not the only wonderful thing, but it certainly gave her hands something to do.

            She wanted to mount him. She wanted to bite him, grab him, fill herself with him. Upon realizing this, she yanked away, near tears in her frustration. This was not _her_. This was not the sort of thing she did. What had she become?

            “That is one way to wake up,” Raheed said.

            When she looked at him, he did not seem shocked at all. In fact, he looked rather pleased, if not groggy from sleep.

            “I . . .” How could she possibly explain herself? What kind of woman must he think she was? She felt her face burn like midday sand, but she could not run. She felt frozen there at his side.

            “Did you get lost on your way to your bedroom?” Raheed asked. “Perhaps you confused me with someone else?”

            “Shut up,” she snapped, but he only chuckled.

            “Leyla.” He reached out and touched her arm, but she drew herself away from him.

            “I don’t know what came over me,” she whispered, more to herself than Raheed. “I am going _mad_.”

            “I do think it’s rather odd that you berate me while you’re drunk and then kiss me when you are clear of mind. Usually it’s the other way around.”

            “You think this is funny?”

            “It is, sort of.” But Raheed frowned. “May I ask what this is all about?”

            “I don’t know.”

            Raheed’s hand fell on her arm again, and this time she did not remove it. She closed her eyes, but it did not help calm her thoughts. Instead it brought her dream back to her and reminded her that the ache was still there, throbbing to the frantic beating of her heart. God help her.

            “Leyla.”

            Leyla turned and looked at him. The humor was mostly gone now, replaced by sincerity.

            “What?” she asked.

            “You look stunning tonight.”

            “Save your flattery. It means nothing to me.”

            “Very well then. But I don’t think anyone has ever kissed me with such fire, so you’ll have to excuse me for being flustered.”

            Against her best judgment, her eyes flickered to his groin. There was a mass of blankets folded there, so she was not forced to recognize any of his arousal. She didn’t understand the disappointment she felt.

            “Not any of your whores?” she asked sharply.

            “There is some fire you cannot buy.”

            “I am not a whore.”

            “I never said you were. But even if you were, do you think I’d care?” Raheed’s eyebrows drifted up his forehead. “I think you’ll find I treat whores better than most ‘good men’ treat proper women. It does not matter to me whether you are one or not. I see you about the same.”

            “How do you see me then?”

            “I thought I made that obvious.”

            “Beyond my appearance.”

            “You saved my life.” His expression softened. “That means a great deal to me.”

            Leyla slumped by his side, defeated. Slowly she reached out and plucked the knot of the bandage, watching as Raheed’s hand slid over hers.

            “If you would like, neither one of us must ever speak of this night. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

            Leyla met his gaze, and for some foolish reason she trusted him. Dear God, this man would be the end of her. She didn’t know what made him so special, outside of the fact he was absolutely forbidden. Of course he was handsome—dreadfully so. But there was also a humor and kindness to him that drew her in, and perhaps it was all of it combined that made this stew of ineffable emotions in her gut.

            Raheed brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them. Then he turned her hand around and pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Then her wrist, then the soft skin along the underside of her forearm. He had just touched his lips to the vein inside of her elbow before she was kissing him again. His arms wrapped around her waist, embracing her, pressing her chest against his. She sighed through her nose and let go of her apprehension for now.

            It would be waiting for her in the morning.

 

* * *

 

            There were various events the next day, such as a camel race and the March of Children, which was led by Darim Altaf, though Asan thought he looked less like a child and more like a small man, dressed in black silk, two swords at his waist in the same manner that Dasaf wore them. Dasaf watched the march on top of his dark horse, Malika to his left on a black mare and Shallaf to his right on the dapple from before. Asan lingered behind, carrying water for whenever the family might need it. Occasionally Dasaf would glance back at him, and a smile would flicker beneath his beard. Perhaps he was pleased that Asan wore the caftan Dasaf had bought him. Asan still wasn’t sure how to feel about the exchange, as he believed all gifts were given with the expectation of future favors. That was not to say that Asan didn’t like wearing it; it made him feel powerful.

            The sun sank in the sky, and they all followed the procession to where the camels had been raced early that morning. Huge panniers of water had been tied to the flanks of camels and oxen, then drained along the track until it had the consistency of pudding. Tents were erected along the edge, and the largest one was reserved for Dasaf and his men. When Dasaf dismounted, he waved Asan forward.

            “Would you like to participate?” Dasaf asked.

            “What is?” Asan asked, unsure.

            “The mud race!”

            Asan recalled Dasaf explaining the event, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Where is dress?”          

            “Give me a moment. Leyla has kindly allowed me use of an old caftan. I’m sure we could find something for you.”

            “Is mud race dangerous?” Asan asked, looking over to the mucky track, where filthy boys were already playing.

            “Of course! It wouldn’t be fun otherwise.” Dasaf clasped a hand on Asan’s shoulder. “You can participate if you like. It is barred to no man. Though of course, you cannot participate in _that_.” Dasaf gestured to Asan’s caftan.   

            Asan shook his head sharply. “No, never.”

            Dasaf vanished into the tent with Shallaf and a few men to get dressed. Asan waited outside, watching several men emerge from tents draped in bright yellow and red caftans, their heads wrapped with colorful, beaded fabric. The women were already laughing and pointing, but the men did not seem to take offense. They bowed low, some even blowing kisses. Asan could see already that it was not an event many took seriously.

            When Dasaf emerged, he looked utterly ridiculous. He had dressed himself in several long, impractical purple robes and wrapped his head in sheer veils decorated with shimmering tassels. Leyla’s sharp laughter greeted him instantly.

            “You look _just_ like me!” she exclaimed. “You even imitated my impressive beard!”

            Dasaf stroked his beard, smirking. “I fashioned it in your image, Leyla.”

            Asan couldn’t help but laugh too. When Dasaf saw him, he grabbed Asan’s arm and thrust him into the tent. “Go ahead and laugh! I will join you when _you_ are dressed.”

            Inside the tent, there was a pile of old gaudy women’s caftans that greeted him. Asan didn’t much care for what he chose, so he pulled the simplest garment from the batch. He carefully removed his caftan and replaced it with that from the pile. Seeing as all of the other men had at least attempted to cover their heads, Asan did the same, though he was not so used to turbans as men of higher status. Hastily wrapping some dark fabric around his head, he stumbled back outside, already tripping on the caftan tassels that swayed about his ankles.

            Of course everyone laughed, but Asan laughed with them. They all looked like total fools. Yet when the horn blew, hard expressions returned and laughter was subdued. Men began to make their way to the starting line, the women calling out encouragement and whistling as they watched.

            Leyla briefly took Asan’s arm. “Good luck! Go slow; running will only make you fall.”

            Asan nodded, then followed Dasaf toward the end of the track. There was a huge group of men gathering there, probably two hundred or more. All of the previous laughter and gaiety had vanished, replaced by iron determination and eyes only for the finish line. Dasaf took his place toward the front, but Asan lingered in the back, preferring to keep himself away from the fray.

            Darim Altaf was seated upon a horse along the edge of the track, reins held in one hand and a horn in the other. Asan could see his grin as the boy lifted an arm to quiet the rabble. He must have announced something, because all were still for a moment. Asan saw muscles tense as the future Sumas brought the horn to his lips, then a spray of mud and torn clothing as the instrument must have called.

            Asan was expecting it to be more of a race than a brawl, but it quickly descended into the latter. The men in the front tripped in the mud, and the men behind them scrambled over their bodies to continue. Limbs flew everywhere, and even where Asan stood, he was not safe from the fray. Someone caught him in the ribs, then jammed an elbow into his cheek. Yet Asan was not afraid, nor was he easily discouraged. He had spent many years of his life slipping through crowds and escaping blows. True, he had never done it in mud, but he was certainly better off than Dasaf. Dasaf had been taken over within seconds, and few were willing to let him rise. Yet when Asan glimpsed his face through the mud that already covered his face, he was grinning.

            Asan left Dasaf behind and continued to slip and slid his way toward the finish line. He seemed to be the center of the pack, though he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. The fabric he’d wrapped around his head had fallen off, and his skirt was stuck between his thighs and calves, impeding his ability to run. But throughout it all, he was laughing. This was the silliest competition he’d ever seen, yet he’d never witnessed men take anything so seriously.

            The winner was a boy nearly Asan’s age, a slip of a thing whose feet seemed to barely touch the ground before he vaulted past the finish line and collapsed in a mud-splattered heap on the dry earth. Many followed, including Asan. As for Dasaf, he was still reeling in the center of the track, his clothing covered in thick globs of mud that kept his limbs pinned. Some men turned around and helped him rise, laughing as they assisted their Sumas to the finish line. Dasaf gave the winner a tight, muddy embrace, using a hand to smear even more muck along the boy’s face. Some of the children took this as an invitation to start a mud fight, though Dasaf quickly ended that with a blow from Darim Altaf’s horn.

            A willowy figure ran toward Asan, pushing past several men before standing before him. Fasa used a clean rag to wipe some of the mud from Asan’s face.

            “Look at you,” she laughed. “If I didn’t know you, I’d have thought you were a demon from the bog!”

            Asan flicked his hands to remove some larger clumps of mud, but it was of little use.

            “Here.” Fasa ducked down and picked up a small bucket she’d brought with her. Asan ducked and let her dump it over his head. The water was warmer than he expected, but it did little to clean him. In fact, it just thinned the mud and made it run into his eyes.

            As Fasa darted off to fill her bucket again, Asan peeled off the outer layer of his clothing and tossed it into a bucket left nearby for such a purpose. By the time Fasa returned, Asan had torn off his tattered sleeves and squeezed the mud from between his toes. The second bucket of water was a tad more cleansing, but it wasn’t enough.

            Before Fasa could grab another bucket, Dasaf approached.

            “Come, Asan,” he said, his beard clumped with enough muck to make him look more statue than man. “We will go to the bathhouses and rid ourselves of the worst of it. No need to run poor Fasa around.” He turned to Fasa. “Did you enjoy the race?” 

            “It was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time, Sumas Dasaf.”

            “It is said that when the Hahnars split, the Hahnars kept the gold, Matij kept the courage, and Khamal kept the humor. Ha! Of course, not everyone would agree upon it. My brother would never have participated in something like this, much to my dismay. I would have loved to see him in Malika’s dressing robe, perhaps with a bit of lace . . .”

            Asan snorted, and Fasa followed. Asan didn’t know what Haadi had looked like, but he’d formed an image of an enormous brute whose face knew no smiles. Asan knew he would have still been handsome though, because Dasaf managed.

            “Fasa, perhaps you could go see to my sisters. They are probably in stitches by now. Tell them Asan and I have already departed for the bathhouses.”

            “Shallaf has been asking for you, Sumas,” she replied.

            “Pah. Tell Shallaf he looked very pretty today. What a marvelous blushing bride he makes.”

            “Also,” Asan added. “My clothes. In main tent.”

            “Ah yes, Asan’s clothes will need to be taken back to the alcazar. He has a grayish blue caftan of Hahnar make. You will notice it. Please return this to his room at the alcazar.”

            Fasa nodded. At that, Dasaf put a hand on Asan’s shoulder and began to steer him up the hill toward the alcazar.


	18. Lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2j1LboAykoI) for this chapter. Happy Halloween, everyone!

           

             By the time they reached the alcazar, the sun had set and the mud had already dried on Asan’s skin. He began to peel it off the back of his hands and arms as they passed through the front gate. The guards standing there found them highly amusing, and Dasaf indulged them with jokes. Asan watched silently with a smile. He doubted any caliph of Ayllamal had jested with _his_ guards. The caliph perhaps could buy loyalty from sons of whores and servants and farmers from lands he conquered afar, but he would never _earn_ it. Asan thought Dasaf a true leader, one who knew his subjects by name and never put much importance on blood or titles.

            Asan did not ask where Dasaf was taking him. He simply followed. There were many bathhouses, so Asan did not know why they had to walk so far, but he did not question. He trusted Dasaf, and he did treasure their privacy, which was welcome after spending the entire day surrounded by jubilant crowds. He enjoyed walking at Dasaf’s side again instead of behind his horse.

            After many twists and turns that Asan had mostly mapped by now, Dasaf brought him into a narrow hall lit by dim lamps. Asan had not been here before, though he recognized it as being very close to Dasaf’s family’s private quarters.

            “Stay here,” Dasaf ordered, stopping outside of a heavy wooden door. “I will return shortly with keys.”

            So Asan waited, nails digging into the mud drying along his arms. He winced as the muck pulled at the hair. He was relieved when Dasaf returned moments later, keys in hand.

            “This is my personal bath,” Dasaf said. “I thought it best to come here, away from the crowds that will surely be packed into the lower bathhouses, closer to the track. I want to stay in long enough to wrinkle, since I’m sure I’ll be swollen and sore tomorrow.”

            Dasaf unlocked the door and pushed it open.

            This bath was very different from the one Asan usually frequented. Asan had never required anything more than a pool of hot water, but Dasaf’s private bath was more than that. There were three tiers of pools, each one draining into the one below it until finally trickling away through a cutout in the far wall. Several potted plants flourished in the humid air, their sunlight provided by the lattice-covered hole in the groined ceiling. The ceiling itself was covered in glittering mosaics, shimmering as they reflected the water below.

            Dasaf circled the room to light the copper lamps along the wall. The lamps were carved into abstract shapes, so their flames threw elaborate shadows on the surrounding walls like ghostly paintings. In such dim surroundings, the water looked black, even though Asan could detect a hint of the stone along the bottom. Steam glided along the surface of the water like a specter.

            By the time Asan remembered Dasaf, Dasaf had already slipped out of his clothes. Asan turned away, but not before catching a rather generous view of Dasaf’s backside and shoulders as he slipped into the uppermost pool.

            Asan scolded himself for being so prudish. Certainly he’d seen Raheed naked enough times to stop blushing at the sight. When he looked back at Dasaf, he found Dasaf watching him.

            Dasaf might have said something, but it was too dark to see from such a distance. So Asan ascended the two steps to the upper tier and crossed to the opposite side of the pool. That was when he worried, because as much as he’d seen Raheed naked, Asan did not make a habit of stripping down in front of him. Perhaps in front of anyone else, Asan might not have minded. Even as a servant in the military, naked bodies were common. Yet . . . Dasaf was looking right at him, and surrounded by the fiery dancing shapes on the wall, he was almost godly.

            Perhaps Dasaf sensed Asan’s discomfort, because Dasaf lifted a hand to cover his eyes, mouth twisted in a smile. Asan quickly disrobed and slipped into the water, but not without wincing. It was hotter in this pool than the one he was used to.

            There was a wooden chest nailed to the floor to Dasaf’s left. He opened it and pulled out some small square cloths, one of which he threw at Asan. Once again he spoke, but in the darkness, with Dasaf’s thick and clotted beard, Asan could not understand. He simply nodded and began to clean himself with the cloth Dasaf provided. He scrubbed until his skin was red before glancing across at Dasaf. Dasaf was less vigorous in his efforts, and Asan felt his gaze, even when he did not see it. Asan wasn’t sure if the heat in his face was from fear or pleasure, so he decided to blame it on hot water in which he soaked.

            He couldn’t stay above the water forever, so he plugged his nose and dunked down, allowing the water a chance to clean the mud clogged in his hair. He hated being underwater even for a moment, as it was a sensation so foreign to him. In Khafa, there was no standing water. Even the occasional storm left no trace, as whatever fell was soaked up and gone within minutes. Asan had drifted into the ocean once or twice, but only until it rose to his waist. He hadn’t the bravery to venture out further. He’d read stories about tides grabbing a man and holding him under, so Asan never chanced it. He didn’t think Raheed could swim either, so he hadn’t bothered asking for a lesson.

            Asan broke the surface and sucked in a deep breath of air. Inside the wooden chest there was a bar of soap, as well as skin lotions, scented oils, and folded silk robes. Asan had never seen or smelled any of that on Dasaf, but perhaps he’d never been close enough.

            Dasaf splashed some water with a hand, which gained Asan’s attention. Dasaf then waved Asan closer.

            “What?” Asan asked.

            Dasaf turned and pointed to his back. Asan realized what Dasaf wanted, but he hesitated. However, the longer he stalled, the more likely Dasaf would sense something wrong. Asan had washed Raheed before. It was a chore he neither loathed nor loved, so he took a deep breath and slid across the pool.

            Like the pool Asan frequented, these had built-in benches where one could sit, so Asan now stood taller than the Sumas. He had decided over time that tall servants like the Mullis did not insult the Hahnars, so Asan didn’t bother to crouch. Most of the mud had been washed away, but there were still a few small clumps clinging to the very center of Dasaf’s back, out of Dasaf’s reach.

            Asan was rather adept at locking away his emotions by now, at least when it came to handsome naked men. This was no worse than when Raheed needed his assistance, so Asan lightly put the cloth to Dasaf’s skin and scrubbed. Within a minute, the mud was washed away, but Asan’s hand continued, sliding over the ridges of Dasaf’s shoulder blades, the crevice of his spine, deeper than most because of the muscles along his back. Asan’s gaze lingered on the nape of Dasaf’s neck, finding it strangely vulnerable without the weight of jewelry. The urge to press a kiss there rose up in Asan suddenly, but he beat it down, as he always did. Denial of his own lust didn’t even bother him anymore. It was like suppressing any other urge, like hunger or urination or sleep. It was a fact of life.

            Dasaf finally shifted, turning slowly as Asan lifted his hands away. Asan took a step back, but then there was a light splash and a hand gripping his side just beneath his waist. Asan glanced down at it, then jolted when another fell on his other side, keeping him still. His eyes met Dasaf’s, and the air was punched from his lungs as if a fist had swung against his sternum. In Dasaf, Asan saw his own need reflected, dark and intense.

            That was all it really took.

             Asan fell upon Dasaf at about the same time Dasaf rose to meet him, and in a second their mouths met, wet and burning. Dasaf yanked Asan closer, so close that Asan was forced to kneel on the bench, his knees on either side of Dasaf’s thighs. Dasaf’s hands left Asan’s sides and gripped Asan’s head and neck instead, manipulating both to the pace that Dasaf had set. Asan was so overwhelmed by the thumping of blood in his ears that he could barely manage to control the movement of his own mouth. He wanted _everything_ in an instant, and the promise of it made him writhe with impatience. Dasaf must have had a similar problem, considering the way his teeth dug into Asan’s lower lip. Asan wondered if his heart might leap out of his chest at the rate it danced.

            Suddenly it all became too much. Asan’s body was so tightly coiled and sensitive that he pulled away, closing his eyes and sucking in deep breaths. His head dropped until his forehead rested against Dasaf’s chin, his beard damp and wiry. With a soft moan, Asan tilted his head back when Dasaf’s lips trailed along his brow and against his hairline. Asan just now recognized the hand on his thigh and the hand behind his head, fingers woven into his wet hair. His own hands clutched Dasaf’s shoulders, each finger making an indent in the skin. He willed himself to let go, but his muscles were locked.

            Asan tried lifting his chin, tried reorienting himself, but when he attempted it Dasaf was kissing him again, much slower this time, careful. Asan found enough energy and dexterity to kiss him back, trying to keep up. He really hadn’t a clue to what he was doing, but that seemed so unimportant with Dasaf so warm and wet beneath him.

            As the kiss kept on, Dasaf’s lips sped up and grew more forceful. Asan might have toppled off of him if Dasaf hadn’t suddenly wrapped both arms around Asan’s waist, pinning them together as Dasaf pushed against Asan’s mouth. They were now seated at an odd angle, Asan dangling over empty water as Dasaf assaulted him. Asan didn’t . . . he couldn’t . . . his mind was blank. Completely, blissfully, _perfectly blank_.

            Who could have known how long they stayed there. It could have been years, lifetimes. Asan felt Dasaf’s hot flesh poking him between his legs, but neither did anything about it. There was no hurry, not really. Who was looking for them? No one. The world was here in this room. Everything else was stars in the night sky, far away and insignificant.

            Finally Dasaf flopped back against the pool wall, breathing deeply. As he sat there, his hands glided along Asan’s sides, more thoughtful than anything. An utterly content smile crawled across his lips as he stared, and for once Asan didn’t mind the attention. He leaned down and kissed Dasaf briefly, grinning against his mouth. When he pulled away, Dasaf pushed two hands through Asan’s hair.

            “My God,” Dasaf said, chest rising with rapid breath. “My God, you are beautiful.”

            Asan lifted a hand from the water and stretched it across the center of Dasaf’s chest. Dasaf had little body hair, unlike Raheed. In fact, Asan was rather sure his arms and lower legs were bare, with only a curly patch between his pecs and lower, around his groin. He stared at his hand until Dasaf tipped his chin up, their eyes meeting.

            “Are you afraid?” Dasaf asked.

            Asan shook his head, trying to smile. Yet his worries began to filter back in. There would be so many who would not approve or understand. Shallaf had threatened him, and what about Raheed? What would Raheed say? Did it matter? Dasaf wanted him, and he wasn’t being paid to. Somehow the idea of being wanted was even more powerful than the experience of _wanting_.

            “Don’t.” Keeping his thumb and forefinger on Asan’s chin, Dasaf pulled him forward and kissed him softly. When he leaned away, he said, “Stay here with me.”

            _I will try_ , Asan replied, wondering if Dasaf would understand.

            Dasaf’s hand fell from Asan’s chin, and he lowered his lips to trail along the underside of Asan’s jaw. The muscles along Asan’s back contracted, freezing him for a moment. Dasaf seemed to know what he was doing, and Asan wondered if he had done this with Shallaf.

            That was a thought that tore through his ecstacy. He pulled back from Dasaf reluctantly, unfolding his legs and standing on the stone floor of the pool. The water lapped at his abdomen, and Asan thanked God it was too dark for Dasaf to see his arousal just beneath the surface, which was standing higher than normal.

            “Late,” Asan muttered.

            Dasaf frowned. “Not terribly so. I’m sure everyone is still out. And if they’re not, they’re deep in drunken slumber.”

            Asan was not very good at arguing. He had once been, back before it had been beaten out of him. He could still pout at Raheed and perhaps get his way, but it was different with Dasaf. _Everything_ was different with Dasaf.

            Dasaf stared at Asan a moment. Finally he sighed and stood as well, water rolling down his shoulders and across his chest. He was taller than Asan, so the water didn’t quite cover up _his_ arousal. Asan found himself staring at it until he caught Dasaf’s amused gaze. Quickly he looked away, biting hard on his lip.

            “Here.” Dasaf dug through the chest and pulled out a silk robe. “Wear this.”

            Asan climbed out of the pool, quickly tying the robe around him. Steam wafted off his skin, and Asan shivered at the cool night hair that struck him. The floor was slippery with condensation, so he moved slowly, sliding his hand along the damp tile until he reached the other side of the pool where Dasaf stood. If Asan had been hoping for some relief in his groin, he probably shouldn’t have looked at Dasaf again. Asan couldn’t tear his eyes from the water beading along Dasaf’s throat and in his curly chest hair.

            “You’re making me blush, Asan,” Dasaf said, and Asan laughed nervously. Dasaf reached out and pushed his hand underneath Asan’s robe, fingers gliding along the bumps of Asan’s ribs before his thumb settled over Asan’s nipple. Asan inhaled sharply, a whine vibrating in his throat.

            Dasaf pulled him forward and they were kissing again. But then Dasaf yanked back and twisted to face the door. Someone must have knocked.

            “Yes?” he called.

            Someone answered, because Dasaf replied, “Give me time enough to dress and I will be right there.”

            After a brief pause, Dasaf looked back at Asan. “I’m being called to dinner.”

            Asan nodded. Dasaf stared at him moment, then sighed. “Oh, Asan. I fear you will be the end of me.”

            _Why_? Asan asked. He had at least taught Dasaf that gesture.

            “Those eyes of yours. I swear they look right through me.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to Asan’s brow. “I must go and dress. Get some sleep. We will speak later.”

            Dasaf and Asan parted ways, but not without a meaningful look. Asan would have liked to help Dasaf get dressed—he _was_ his personal servant, after all—but perhaps Dasaf’s dinner guests would not appreciate Dasaf being rumpled and disoriented at dinner. Smiling to himself, Asan walked away, holding his robe in such a way that passing servant girls wouldn’t be subjected to the lump beneath.

           

* * *

 

            Asan could not sleep. He _could_ , but not for very long. His eyes would sweep shut only to slide open what had to be minutes later, and his thoughts would land right back in the same spot they had drifted off. Then he’d lie there and stare at the ceiling, explaining to himself all the reasons why he should absolutely not touch himself. _It is a sin_ , the books said. _God sees all_. But as the night progressed, Asan could see less and less value behind such proverbs, and his hand would drift lower and lower until he was forced to his feet. He paced the room, recited poems, yearned for his sketchbook where at least he could keep his fingers busy. But the four walls of his bedchamber drove him mad, so he slipped out into the hall, finding the breeze a welcome relief. But its cool touch did not eradicate the urge, nor did it abate his frenzied thoughts. Any time he forced his mind toward literature or history, it would inevitably wander toward Dasaf, both recalling what had happened and conjuring what had not.

            Maybe this was why Raheed sought whores. Maybe this was the fire he wildly attempted to subdue. Had he felt this way about Malli? He’d only seen her once a month. The thought of being apart from Dasaf that long nearly gave Asan stomach cramps. At the time he’d thought Raheed silly, but now he understood.

            Asan’s feet took him away from his bedchamber, crossing through gardens and courtyards and dark hallways until he found himself in the keep, wandering past elaborate mosaics and arched ceilings until he had reached the family’s private quarters. His attempt to enter the hallway was thwarted by two guards. They did not speak Aillic, and he could only recognize the rudimentary basics of Hahnar, so he drifted away, frustrated. In defeat, he returned to his room, doomed to a night of short naps and untamed fantasies.

 

* * *

 

            The next morning, Dasaf and Malika went to Jakil Ultar in his tent, erected in the alcazar’s main plaza. The tent was probably the size of a small house and furnished with all the trappings Jakil Ultar enjoyed anywhere else on Hahnar land. Of course, it was not the sort of structure a Hahnar king would find suitable; the Matij did not much care for the finer things in life. But Jakil Ultar was a man more vulnerable to luxury than his father, and he had managed to procure several rugs from beyond the mountain, noticeable by their gold embroidery and florishing vegetal patterns. However, he stayed true to Matij tradition in that he slept where he ate, and his camel was resting just to his left. Camels were more sacred to the Matij than any other men, and those who could afford a large enough tent would normally keep their camels inside with them. It was said that a Matij killed on his camel would always find his way back home, as their camels would take them there. The animals’ loyalty was infamous.

            At first Malika was denied entrance. Women did not enter the chief’s tent unless they were called for, but Jakil Ultar came to them upon hearing the argument and quickly invited them both inside. He returned to his seat on the floor, putting the hose of his hookah to his lips and inhaling.

            “Would you like some, Sumas?” he asked.

            Dasaf partook, only because he knew it was expected. Malika did not wait to be invited; she knew that such offers were not open to her.

            “Now, what is it you wish to discuss?” he asked as they both sat across from him. “I assume it is in regards to our extended stay. I would like to see my daughter’s wedding before my departure.”

            Malika and Dasaf looked at one another. They were taking a risk, but it was one Dasaf thought worth it.

            “It is in regards to your daughter,” Dasaf began.

            Something in his tone must have alerted Jakil Ultar, because the man straightened and frowned. “Is she not acceptable to you?”

            “Of course she’s acceptable. I find no fault in her. However—”

            Jakil Ultar’s expression turned stony, and he pointed a finger at Dasaf. “Do you reject my offer, Sumas?”

            “No. I do not.”

            “Then what is this about?” Jakil Ultar turned a sharp gaze to Malika who, God bless her, did not flinch.

            “We have decided upon an . . . alternative option.”

            Jakil Ultar inhaled on his hookah, eyes narrowed—waiting.

            “Your offer is most gracious, Jakil Ultar. Your daughter is a, uh, lovely young woman, and we look forward to accepting her into our family. Yet I will only be Sumas for six more years, and then I will step down to allow my nephew to take the responsibilities that his father before him bore. We know that he will be a successful and charitable Sumas—”

            Jakil Ultar clicked his tongue. “You Khamal talk too much. Tell me what you want to do.”

            Malika spoke this time. “We would like to instead marry your daughter to Darim.”

            “ _Darim_?” Jakil Ultar was silent in shock for a moment, then said, “He is _ten_ , is he not?”

            “Twelve,” Dasaf corrected.

            “This is very long, too long. My daughter will be an old woman by then.”

            Malika’s face was blank as she replied, “She will be merely a year older than Darim, _shuma_ Jakil.”

            “If he is twelve, it will be six years. What will my daughter do in these six years, eh? Lounge about?”

            “I assume she will do what she’s been doing for thirteen years,” Malika said, tone bitter. Then she softened with a smile and a, “ _shuma_ Jakil.”

            “I do not know your son, Suman. For all I know, he could be a sickly boy with a twisted mind. He could be dead in six years. I know Dasaf, know his character. He is a grown man who has proven himself to be a strong and capable Sumas. I do not want my daughter to go to a mere boy.”

            “He will be the _Sumas_ , and he will be the Sumas until he dies. Pray to God he lasts into old age. If your daughter marries Dasaf, she will only be Suman for six more years. She will then step down when Darim marries another woman. Is this a smart political strategy for you? Why not marry her to the Sumas who will rule for another sixty years? Because you are too impatient to have her wait six?”

            Jakil Ultar stiffened, then stabbed a finger in her direction. “You have more tongue than you have self-discipline, Suman Malika.”

            “I am Suman. I am allowed however much tongue I require.”

            “Is this how it is in Khamal, eh?” Jakil Ultar’s gaze was on Dasaf now. “You sit quiet while this woman berates me like a child?”

            “We mean no disrespect—”

            “I do not think you know what respect _is_ here in Khamal, Sumas.” Jakil Ultar shook his head and took another drag from the hose of his hookah. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his face. “It is of no matter. I do see some wisdom in what your Suman has said, though I do resent my generous gifts being debated as if they are trades. In the end, I shall decide who she marries, and if the Sumas does not like it then she shall marry a proper Matij man within the year. I don’t like waiting. A cobra who waits is a cobra who dies of hunger. Much could happen in six years, and I do not trust fate.” His eyes pierced through Dasaf. “Do you have plans on another, Sumas?”

            “No.”

            “You are certainly of a good age for it. Is there something about my daughter you do not approve of? What is in it for you to instead marry her to your nephew? Does she displease you?”

            Dasaf shook his head. “She is a beautiful girl, _shuma_ Jakil Ultar.”

            “Perhaps you’d prefer not to sully yourself with Matij blood?”

            “She is Darim’s age. I thought them a better pair, that is all.”

            Jakil Ultar’s eyes narrowed. “You are a very odd man. I know of no other who would reject the prospect of bedding a pretty thing like my daughter. I chose her out of all my daughters for her obsequiousness, her beauty, her taciturnity. Her mother bore four sons before she bore her, and Kalila would bring you similar gifts, I am sure.”

            Dasaf felt Malika’s eyes on his face, but he ignored her. “I would prefer she wed Darim. It is of no fault of Kalila’s.”

            Jakil Ultar pulled a dirk from the leather scabbard at his waist, placing a finger at the tip and another on the edge of the hilt. Dasaf was sure it was more often bloody than it was clean, such as it was at the moment. Unlike Hahnar kings, Matij chiefs did not let their men fight for them. It was amazing that the Ultar’s father had lived as long as he had, considering all of the battles he fought against Mullis and others.

            “You also realize,” Jakil Ultar continued, “that if my daughter is not wed to a Sumas, then I cannot pledge Matij support. I’m sure you know about the Mulli army that camps west of here.”

            Dasaf’s jaw stiffened. “I was told Hahnars attacked their camp.”

            “That was not of Matij doing. We are strong, but we are not stupid. The Matij are nothing against an army that size. Yet combined with the Khamal, we could be a mighty force, even outnumbered as such.”

            “We have been told that the Mulli do not plan to strike Khamal. They have their sights on the Hahnars beyond the mountain.”

            “Who has told you this?”

            Dasaf and Malika glanced at one another before turning back to the chief. “Sources.”

            “Even if these sources are true, one cannot trust Mulli dogs. They will bite any hand that lingers too close. And they hunt down prey where they find it. Khamal must look rather ripe to them, small and vulnerable as it is.”

            “Khamal strength is legendary. If they attacked us, we would destroy the numbers they need to fight Hahnars.”

            “Khamal strength? Rumors. Myths. It was true that men quaked at the sight of your father upon a horse, your brother as well. But you?” Jakil Ultar shook his head. “You are not them, Sumas Dasaf.”

            “You know _nothing_ about Dasaf,” Malika snapped back, and Dasaf turned to her in shock. He might have expected Leyla to come to his defense, even his grandmother. Never Malika. “He is just as much a swordsman as the rest of you, and you would be hard-pressed to find a better rider or marksman.”

            “What does a woman know of swordfighting and horses?” Jakil Ultar sneered. “I knew your father, Sumas Dasaf. He was the only man my father respected.”

            “And yet your father refused any alliances with us.”

            “This is true. Now I am seeing why. It is clear to me that the Matij are only worthy of your untrained boys.”

            “Honored Jakil Ultar—”

            “I will not wed my daughter to a boy who has not seen blood. He is not worthy of her, not yet. However, I may change my mind if he proves his worthiness.”

            “His worthiness? I don’t want to play any of your games, _shuma_.”

            “Games? No. This is not a game. We do not play at war. I offered my daughter to you, and now you ask me to marry her to your nephew instead. So now it is my turn to make the request.”

            “What would this be then?”

            Jakil Ultar smiled, slowly and slyly. “Bring your boy Sumas outside of the gates of Khamal where my men wait. Then we will see if he is worthy of a Matij bride.”


	19. Mercy

 

            “It’s not fair!” Altaf cried.

            “Boy, nothing is fair,” his great-grandmother replied, as calm as a bathhouse pool. “Especially for the future Sumas.”

            “But—but why can’t I marry a Khamal girl?”

            “What’s the difference, Altaf?” Malika said, exasperated.

            “The Matij are . . .” Altaf frowned. “They are our enemies, aren’t they?”

            “Only insomuch that you should never trust one.”

            “But you’re asking me to _marry_ one?”

            “Altaf,” Dasaf said, trying to grab Altaf to keep him from pacing. When his hand gripped Altaf’s shoulder, the boy tossed him off and kept striding back and forth, agitated. Dasaf couldn’t help but think of Haadi when he did that. “She’s just a girl. You have nothing to fear from her. Besides, you won’t be marrying her until you are Sumas. It’s not as if we’re asking you to do this now.”

            “I won’t do it,” Altaf exclaimed, jutting out his bottom lip. “I don’t want to.”

            “Altaf, are you a child or are you man?” Rabida snapped. “You’ll do what duty calls on you to do, and that’ll be the end of it. You think I chose my husband? Do you think your mother chose hers? This is the way of life.”

            “But Uncle’s not married!”

            “Your uncle is not the true Sumas! And he knows what I think of his marital status.” Rabida through Dasaf a rather ugly look. “An alliance with the Matij is necessary to protect our people. Or would you rather the Mullis swarm us and kill us all? They will be sorely needed in times of need, and all we ask is that you promise to marry a girl. It seems hardly a huge sacrifice.”

            “Altaf,” Malika said softly, taking his hand. “She is a very pretty girl and very sweet. I find no fault in her.”

            “I don’t care!” Altaf pulled his hand from hers.

            Rabida looked at Dasaf, as did Malika. Dasaf took a deep breath and searched for whatever part of him that he shared with Haadi. Haadi never would have stood for Altaf’s pouting, and it was time to put an end to it.

            “We are done talking about this,” Dasaf said firmly. “You _will_ marry this girl. You are Sumas, and it’s time to start acting like one. There are boys your age starving, enslaved, broken and beaten, and this is what you complain about? Marrying a pretty girl? I won’t hear it anymore. You will do this because I say you will, and that’s the end of it. Do you understand me?”

            Altaf opened his mouth to continue arguing, but Dasaf glared at him. Altaf shrunk back, hanging his head with a, “Yes, Honored Uncle.”

            “Good. Now that we’re all done squabbling like children, I believe we have to meet the Matij outside the city gates. Apparently you must prove yourself.”

 

* * *

 

            The Matij had set up a sizable camp just outside of Khamal. A stranger looking upon it might consider it a bivouac for vagabonds or bandits. The Matij did not purchase much—most of it was stolen. Most of the tents were taken from fallen Mulli troops, then stained or dyed so that they were not so recognizable as Mulli. Dasaf had always found it deplorable that the Matij spoke so lowly of Mullis and yet depended on their plundered goods to survive.

            In the center of the camp was a large open space, used for eating or training or whatever ceremony that Matij cooked up from time to time. Now half of the chief’s army stood in a circle along its border, watching as Altaf and his uncle were drawn into the center. Jakil Ultar sat upon his camel, towering over Dasaf and Altaf’s horses. The chief was wearing clothing even more ragged than what he’d donned at his tent in the alcazar, some of it even stained with old blood. No wonder the Hahnars and the Matij had never gotten along. The Hahnars perhaps could not imagine a leader of Jakil Ultar’s status wearing bloody garments.

            “Ah, there is the young Sumas,” Jakil Ultar said. “At least you aren’t sickly, eh? You look like your father, that is for sure. Let’s hope you have his heart.”

            “You knew my father, Honored Jakil?” Altaf asked. To his credit, he looked rather unperturbed by the surrounding Matij, even in all their tattered robes and swords speckled with old blood.

            “He was a fierce man. I’m sure you’ve been told that.”

            Altaf nodded. “No man could stand against him and live.”

            Jakil Ultar smiled. “That is because he never fought me, young Sumas. He is fortunate for that.”

            Altaf said nothing, neither denying nor agreeing. When the times called for it, Altaf could call upon his mother’s steely reserve. Dasaf hoped that whatever Darim blood ran through Altaf’s veins would help him with the upcoming task.

            “Have you ever killed a man, Darim Altaf?” Jakil Ultar asked.

            “I was born into peaceful times,” was Altaf’s answer.

            “Today we will change this.” Jakil Ultar turned around to face several of his advisors, burly men with scarred faces. “Bring out the dog.”

            For a second, Dasaf was terrified they might actually bring out a dog, an animal Altaf had no experience hunting or fighting. But then a bony man in chains was shoved into the ring, and Dasaf understood.

            “Behold our new pup,” Jakil Ultar said, and the men around him laughed. The man standing several strides from Dasaf’s horse was filthy and underfed, barely able to stand on his own. His hair had grown long with his beard, both of which were black and slimy with grease. His chains were too tight, so there was a thin crust of dark blood around his ankles and wrists. Beyond this, his back was a mass of bloody gashes, most likely torn apart with whips. He was completely naked, so even with the dirt, blood, and sunburn, he was obviously _faskii_.

            “What is this?” Dasaf asked, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

            “This is our new Mulli pet,” Jakil Ultar said. “A nice seasoned soldier, probably your age, Sumas Dasaf. I’m sure he’s killed plenty of Hahnars in his time. Not much of anything now, but put a sword in his hand and he may surprise you.”

            “I thought you killed all the Mullis you fought.”

            “How I would love to! I sell some, the young ones at least. The ones without _bhanak_ brands can be sold to Hahnars as slaves, if you lie about where you got them. This one’s a bhanak. Sometimes I’ll keep the fierce ones to test my sons, to teach them both sword and arrow. While your boy Sumas grows soft in his alcazar, my boys half his age are putting arrows through Mulli skulls.”

            Dasaf scowled. “How kind of you to chain and starve them. I’m sure they make such worthy foes.”

            Jakil Ultar only smiled. “It’s not the fight you have to teach them. It’s the death.”

            Dasaf looked over at his nephew. Altaf was staring at the hunched Mulli man, expression unreadable. Dasaf was fully prepared to get off his horse and do the deed for him, but he knew that the Matij would never respect his nephew as Sumas if Dasaf did so. He wished he had just married the silly girl and been done with it. He might have had to bed her a few times, but he had done more wretched things. His father had asked Dasaf to kill a Mulli when he was only eight. That had been more terrible. Dasaf could still remember the _thump_ of the Mulli’s body as it hit the ground, the warmth of Haadi’s arm around his shoulders, Haadi’s whisper in his ear: “ _Well done. Father is proud.”_ Proud of what? It had been easy. Dasaf had learned Aillic, had memorized whole scriptures, had taught a horse to rear on command. Yet it was that simple task, that single slice of the blade— _that_ had made his father proud. That, and only that.

            “Unchain the Mulli and give him a sword,” Jakil Ultar ordered. “Let him fight the young Sumas and let us see if he is Darim Haadi’s son after all.”

            Four men came forward to unlock the _bhanak’s_ chains and hand him a rusty, dull sword. There was no honor to be won in such a fight, only proof that Altaf could murder with the rest of his kin.

            Altaf began to dismount.

            “Altaf,” Dasaf hissed. He spoke in Aillic, so that the Matij could not understand. “You do not have to do this.”

            Altaf’s feet thumped to the dirt, just like the body of that Mulli Dasaf had killed so many years ago. His expression was stony as he faced his uncle. “What else have you been training me for, Uncle, if not for this?”

            Dasaf watched, stunned, as Altaf strode forward, pulling his scimitar from his scabbard. Dasaf stopped seeing his nephew and instead saw his brother, standing lean and erect, sword at his side. Dasaf felt just as helpless now as he did then.

            Altaf’s horse was led away, and Dasaf moved to the edge of the ring. He did not doubt that Altaf could win this battle. He was young, but Dasaf had trained him since he could walk. With a sharp sword and such a weak opponent, there was little need to worry about him. Yet Dasaf worried. If Altaf were hurt . . .

            Thank God that Malika had not come.

            Altaf and the Mulli stood in the middle of the clearing, sizing one another up. The Mulli was tall, perhaps as tall as Dasaf. Yet when he tried his first blow, there was no heart in it. It thunked against Altaf’s blade and then dropped, useless. Perhaps the man had been fierce and proud once, but by now he was just waiting to die. This was confirmed when he heard the man speak to Altaf, softly but audible.

            “Do you speak Aillic?” he asked. “I thought I heard you speak it before.”

            Altaf nodded, slicing his scimitar forward. The man dodged away, but barely.

            “Then do me a favor.” The man stopped, sword at his side. “Kill me.”

            “What is this?” Jakil Ultar called from his camel. “Are you going to fight, young Sumas, or are you so green that you haven’t an idea as how to swing a sword?”

            “Make it clean,” the man said as Altaf stared at him. “Painless, if you can.”

            Others might not have seen it, but Altaf provided the man a nearly imperceptible nod.

            The Mulli jabbed his sword forward, missing Altaf completely. As the man was bent, Altaf drove a knee into his side, taking the Mulli to his hands and knees. Then, swifter than Dasaf expected, Altaf put his blade clean through the Mulli’s neck. As the Mulli’s headless body flopped to the cracked earth, the Matij let out a joyful cry of triumph, pumping their fists in their air and stomping their feet.

            Altaf sheathed his scimitar and turned back to Dasaf. Dasaf, at a loss of how to react, simply nodded.

            Jakil Ultar held up his hands and the uproar quieted. When there was finally silence, he urged his camel forward until he was towering over Altaf.

            “There is Darim blood in you,” the chief said with a grin. “This I have seen today. You are welcome to my daughter Kalila when you come of age. You have proven yourself to me and my tribe, and you can call upon us as brothers when you are in need.”

            Altaf bowed low. “You honor me, _Shuma_ Jakil Ultar.”

            “Here.” The chief reached into his saddlebags and from them plucked a sword, which he tossed down to Altaf. “This is the Mulli’s sword. It is yours now. May it be the first of many.”

            Altaf bowed once more, then walked back to his horse. When he mounted, he said nothing to Dasaf. He merely turned the mare’s head around and kicked her into a trot through the parting men. As Dasaf followed behind, he wondered if Darim Zhad would be proud of his grandson as he had so many years ago when Dasaf’s blade cleaved flesh and bone in two. There was no denying that Altaf had gotten his first taste of what it meant to be a Khamal Sumas today.

            Dasaf urged his horse into a canter to catch up with his nephew, passing through the Khamal gates and leaving the Matij behind.

  

* * *

 

            Fasa was putting out laundry to dry when a monkey skittered across the courtyard and leapt up her legs and torso, using her as a springboard onto the roof. By the time she’d even noticed the thing’s paws grasping her, the monkey was off, galloping along the scalloped roof and screeching at the boy who chased it below.

            “Tajir!” the boy snarled. “You stupid monkey, get off the roof!”

            “Do you have any fruit?” Fasa asked. Darim Altaf whirled to face her, frowning.

            “If I had any fruit, do you think I’d be yelling at him?” he snapped. Fasa blinked in shock; it was not like Darim Altaf to yell at her, at least not in the few times they’d spoken. He’d been very curious about her time spent as a slave, so she had indulged him with the less gruesome tales. 

            “He’ll come down eventually,” Fasa said kindly. “Just when he thinks you don’t want him to.”

            “I want him to come down _now_. He should do as I tell him.”

            Fasa considered not replying at all. Clearly the boy was in a state of distress, and she didn’t want to be a victim of it. So she returned to her laundry, watching the young Sumas out of the corner of her eye. He stood there glaring at the monkey, who climbed higher onto the roof until he vanished over the other side.

            “Forget you then!” Darim shouted. “Next time I see you, I’ll put you in stew!” Then he grabbed a broken branch off the ground and threw it as hard as he could against a pillar, resulting in a loud _crack_ of splintering wood. Fasa jumped, wondering if she should just leave. She didn’t know why Darim was in this courtyard to begin with, considering it was used mostly for drying laundry, drawing water from the well, and tossing the occasional slop bucket into several pits dug around the perimeter.

            “Is everything okay, _shuma_ Darim?” Fasa asked carefully when Darim stood there fuming for a moment.

            “No, everything is not _okay_. Everything is wrong. I wish—” Darim cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind. You don’t care.”

            “I might. What is wrong?”

            “You told me you were a slave.”

            Fasa stiffened, but tried to retain her smile. “I was.”

            “You were forced to marry a man.”

            “Indeed.”

            “What was it like?”

            Fasa snorted. “It was like being stabbed repeatedly by a hot poker.” _Quite literally_ , if one thought of a penis as a hot poker. Fasa chased the memory away; the longer she dwelled on it, the less human she felt.

            “Oh.” Darim frowned. “I have to marry some stupid Matij girl.”

            “That’s unfortunate.”

            “I don’t want to be Sumas,” Darim blurted, his stern expression bleeding away to reveal something vulnerable within.

            “Why not?”

            “I thought it was all about getting your way all the time, doing what you wanted. But it’s nothing like that. It’s about marrying strange girls and . . .” He trailed off, his eyes fixated on something in the distance. Finally he turned to Fasa, his face rather haunted. “I don’t want to kill anyone anymore.”

            _Anymore_. A chill rushed down Fasa’s spine. What had Darim Altaf done?

            “Have you killed anyone?” he asked her.

            “Why would you ask a woman such a thing?”

            “Because I know you’ve seen more than most women. You tell me the truth.”

            Fasa sighed, dropping some sheets into the basket at her feet. “I have killed one man before.”

            “Why?”

            “He put his hands on me.”

            Darim shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking embarrassed. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know what you mean. He tried to . . .” Altaf glanced away, “take you as one takes a wife.”

            “You know what that entails then?”

            “I think so.”

            “Well, I wasn’t gonna have that. After my husband, I wasn’t gonna let any man touch me. So I slit his throat and left him in a ravine to die.”

            “Did you regret it? Did you feel bad afterward?”

            “No.” Fasa shrugged. “I would have done it a thousand times if I’d had the chance.”

            “It’s because he was bad.”

            “Yes. But to others he might not have been. Women see evil in men that other men don’t see. Many men respected my husband, but I would have cut his eyes out if given the chance. They didn’t see him as I saw him.”

            Darim gulped. “They tell me all the Mullis are evil. Is that what you’ve seen? As a woman?”

            “Mullis aren’t more or less evil than any other sick bastard out there. Mullis will tell you Hahnars are evil, and Hahnars will tell you Mullis are evil. But I could never tell the difference. Pale-skinned, dark-skinned, old, young, poor, rich. They all have the same hands.”

            “Today I . . .” Darim swallowed. “Today I hated the Matij more than I hated the Mullis. Is that wrong?”

            “No.” She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever you feel inside of you is right. It’s the others outside that are wrong.”

            Darim wrapped his arms around himself, turning away from her. “What I did today . . . I know I am wrong.”

            “No more wrong than the rest of them,” Fasa assured him. “That I know too.”

 

* * *

 

            Jakil Ultar wanted the betrothal ceremony to occur that night, as the Matij were heading back tomorrow as the festival ended. So Dasaf rushed to his room, wondering what he could wear that would be ornate enough for a betrothal ceremony without offending the Matij. Then he decided to damn the Matij and whatever offended them. If they could ask his nephew to kill a man, then he could wear a caftan with gold embroidery.

            Shallaf was prowling the halls of his personal quarters. Dasaf’s hope that perhaps he could slip past unnoticed was dashed as Shallaf spotted him. Dasaf steeled himself for whatever accusations or criticisms Shallaf had in store.

            “That _faskii_ man is in your room, cleaning your floors,” he said sharply.

            “And?”

            “Is there a reason he’s in your personal quarters? Again?”

            “He’s my servant. He’s doing what has been asked of him.”  
            “ _Your_ servant?”

            “Yes.”

            A muscle in Shallaf’s jaw twitched. “And you think this is appropriate?”

            On any other day, Dasaf might have laughed. It was the quickest way to dissolve arguments, as Shallaf had no weapon against humor. But Dasaf had been forced to watch his nephew play executioner, and he was not feeling particularly playful. “Please, elaborate for me what is so _inappropriate_ about the arrangement.”

            “Anyone but an idiot could see that you have a fondness for the _faskii_ , and everyone but _you_ can see why it’s horribly inappropriate.” Shallaf took a step forward, forcing Dasaf to take a step back. “Tell me: have you paid him anything yet?”

            Dasaf didn’t really consider his actions before he executed them. He grabbed a handful of Shallaf’s robes and shoved him hard against the wall, pressing his forearm up underneath Shallaf’s chin, positioning it just over his windpipe. With enough pressure, he could restrict the man’s breathing, and with enough force, he could kill him. It was a similar hold Haadi had used on Dasaf when Dasaf had shed tears over his mother’s death. _You will not cry_ , Haadi had hissed. _Or God so help me, I will take your life_.

            “Sometimes you forget who you’re talking to,” Dasaf snarled.

            Shallaf did not seem particularly alarmed, though he seemed to choose his words carefully. Not carefully enough. “Is that why the Mulli soldier likes his servant so much? He’s kept him as a whore?”

            Dasaf pulled away quickly, and Shallaf stumbled to regain his balance. Dasaf resisted the urge to kick him, to strike him to the ground.

            “You’re jealous,” Dasaf said.

            Shallaf laughed unkindly. “Jealous of a crippled _faskii_? Never. But you’re too blind to realize that the _faskii_ has access to you when you sleep. Are you sure you know where his loyalties lie? One night he’ll slit your throat, and it is only you that can be blamed.”

            “I trust him more than I trust you right now.”

            Shallaf adjusted the cloak around his shoulders. “At least I will keep you alive when there are swords at your back. What would that servant do? Let you die, I’m sure. If it came between you and that soldier whose life he begged so prettily for . . . who do you think he’d choose?”  
            “You should go,” Dasaf growled.

            Shallaf stepped up in front of Dasaf, a mere breath away. “I hope for all the special treatment you’ve given him, he sucks your cock well.” Then with a flap of his robes, he was striding away, cloak billowing behind him.

            Slowly, Dasaf walked to his room. He found Asan still washing down the floor, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair held back by a stained piece of yellow fabric. His back was to the door, so he didn’t even notice Dasaf’s entrance.

            “Where do your loyalties lie, Asan?” Dasaf asked softly, leaning against the threshold. “With that soldier of yours?”

            Of course Asan didn’t answer. He kept scrubbing, occasionally pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. Dasaf shook his head. He hadn’t the time to worry about such things. For now he had to put his mind on the betrothal ceremony and getting Altaf through it without any mishap.

            When Dasaf strode to his wardrobe, Asan jolted and scrambled to his feet. By the time Dasaf had turned back around, Asan was picking up his rag and bucket to dispose of them. Dasaf stopped him with a gesture of his hand, then beckoned him forward.

            After unwrapping his belt, Dasaf pulled off his caftan and handed it to Asan to fold. Then Dasaf moved to the basin of water underneath his mirror to rinse the sand that had collected on his face and in his beard. When he turned around, Asan was already waiting with a towel.

            Dasaf stared at him a moment, trying to see deeper than Asan’s usual polite façade. Asan appeared unsure under the scrutiny of Dasaf’s gaze, so Dasaf reached forward and drew him into a kiss. Asan seemed shocked at first, but then kissed back, hands fluttering to Dasaf’s shoulders.

            Exhaling through his nose, Dasaf pulled away and took the towel Asan had provided.

            _Okay_? Asan asked with his hands. Dasaf understood that much at least. Asan was beginning to communicate more with his hands, and for some reason it comforted Dasaf.

            _Difficult_ , Dasaf attempted, then shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

            Asan smiled at Dasaf’s gesture, but then sobered and nodded. He went to Dasaf’s wardrobe and pulled out a dark green caftan with silver embroidery. It was not what Dasaf might have chosen for the event, but it would do. Asan brought it to Dasaf and helped him slide his arms into it. With a strange yet comforting brusque grip, Asan turned Dasaf to face him and wrapped a samite sash around Dasaf’s waist, tying it firmly at his side. After this, Asan retrieved Dasaf’s belt and scabbard, buckling those as well.

            Dasaf submitted to the treatment, vaguely aroused by it all. There was something intimate about it, almost domestic. He liked watching Asan’s hands, red and rough from scrubbing floors. He was no wilting flower, this servant. He had as much common sense and work ethic as any worthwhile Khamal Hahnar Dasaf knew.

            When Asan began to pull away, Dasaf took his face in his hands. Asan’s black eyes met his, wide and waiting.

            “Give me two hours,” Dasaf said softly, his thumbs running along the soft skin at the corners of Asan’s eyes. “Can you return here in two hours? I would like to speak in detail with you.”

            “Late,” Asan replied.

            “I know, but . . .” Dasaf trailed off, trying to appear more confident than he was. He felt like that sixteen-year-old boy, playing at seduction but clueless as a child. “Today has been a very long and arduous day, and your company may be the only thing that will bring me relief.”

            Asan didn’t answer immediately, but after a few moments he nodded. Dasaf kissed his forehead firmly before pulling his hands away. Waving to Asan, Dasaf slipped out of the room and down the hall, palms already sweating with anticipation.

 

* * *

 

            The ceremony was not as lavish as it might have been had the alcazar staff had more than a few hours to prepare. Considering the short notice, the food was plentiful and delicious, and the decorations surprisingly elaborate. They had erected a silk canopy, draping each of the four posts in strings of yellow and white flowers. The cobblestone was littered with sage and rosemary, as well as fallen petals from various other blossoms. Those in attendance were only family of both Jakil Ultar and Dasaf, as betrothal ceremonies were intimate affairs, meant only for those closest to the future couple. Dasaf had stopped trying to remember all the names of Jakil Ultar’s sons. He had at least ten, if not more. Dasaf focused mainly on the oldest, Jakil Nhasi, who was nearly Dasaf’s age, though more similar to Haadi in manner and temperament.

             Dasaf pushed through the crowd and crossed the bridge that connected one side of the small courtyard pond to the other. After passing across the veranda, he ducked into a room where Malika and Rabida were bickering over a surly Altaf, who stood mute in the corner. A small smile crossed his face when he saw Dasaf enter.

            “Uncle.”

            “Look at you,” Dasaf said with a grin, slipping past Malika and Rabida to embrace Altaf heartily. Altaf was dressed entirely in white, from his turban to the long caftan that reached his knees. Silver buttons crossed his chest, shimmering filigree blooming from every seam and border. His trousers were tight across his calves and ankles, and his slippers were covered in a thin skin of glass beads. Today he looked more grown up than Dasaf had ever seen him, and despite all that had happened, Dasaf was proud.

            “It itches, “Altaf muttered, his arms twitching.

            “Well, you only need wear it a few hours. I’m sure this girl will fall in love with you the moment she sees you.”

            Altaf scrunched his nose. “Let’s hope not.”

            _She will prefer you to me_ , Dasaf wished he could say.

            “It would be nice if you could at least _attempt_ to look pleasant,” Malika said with exasperation.

            “I don’t want to marry any Matij girl or any girl at all.”

            “And I wish I could fly abut the sky with the wings of a dragon, but that’s not very likely, is it?” Malika licked her finger and removed what must have been a smudge along Altaf’s cheek. Altaf pushed her away, squirming. He only stopped when the door opened again, admitting Leyla.

            “Oh, Altaf! Look at you! You are so handsome!” Leyla swept forward and swallowed Altaf into a warm hug, which Altaf protested. Dasaf laughed, and eventually Leyla let him go, but not without kissing him wetly on the cheek. He wiped it off with a sound of derision.

            “Can the ceremony start already?” Altaf asked in frustration.

            Ten minutes later, the drums began to beat, and they all rushed Altaf outside. Dasaf and Malika stood on either side of him and led him across the bridge to the erected canopy, where they all knelt before the High Khalkar, Altaf in front and his guardians behind. When the High Khalkar was done singing his prayer, he turned and gestured to the Matij on the other side. The men parted to allow Jakil Ultar and his daughter to step along the floral-covered cobblestone. Kalila was covered in a shapeless white veil, her eyes hidden behind a thick-netted square. The only bare skin was that of her hands, across which blossoms were woven like gloves. In her hands she carried a ceramic jug in the shape of a camel, just as Altaf carried a covered bowl of honey. She placed the item in front of her before bowing to the High Khalkar. As Jakil Ultar took his seat behind her, the High Khalkar began his prayer anew.

            “Under God we join two spirits, one sun and one moon, one night and one day, one land and one ocean. Let God bear witness to their promise, and may he judge them should they break it.” The High Khalkar dropped his head, turning now to Altaf. “Stand, Darim Altaf, future Sumas of Khamal, son of Darim Haadi and Jhana Malika. Come and offer your gift.”

            Inhaling sharply, Altaf stood, picking up his bowl and stepping further under the canopy. The High Khalkar turned to Kalila now.

            “Stand, Jakil Kalila, future Suman of Khamal, daughter of Jakil Ultar and Lhafal Ana. Come and offer your gift.”

            Kalila stood, but not before tripping on the long robe covering her feet. There was an abortive snort from somewhere in the crowd, but it was immediately stifled after one murderous look from the Matij chief. Her hands shaking, Kalila rose to her feet with her ceramic pitcher, taking several steps beneath the silk canopy.

            “Jakil Kalila, if you accept your betrothal promise, take part in Darim Altaf’s gift, and let God pay witness.”

            Altaf dipped a silver spoon into the bowl of honey, then awkwardly raised it. Normally Khamal women were not fully veiled at such a ceremony, so clearly he was at a loss of what exactly to do. Luckily Kalila reached down and pulled back her veil just enough so that her mouth was freed, allowing her to lean forward and accept the spoon of honey that Altaf offered. After swallowing this, she dropped the veil back over her face.

            “Darim Altaf, if you accept your betrothal promise, take part in Jakil Kalila’s gift, and let God pay witness.”

            Kalila poured the milk from her pitcher into a small cup that the High Khalkar offered, then handed it to Altaf. Altaf sipped it, then gave it back.

            “Join hands now, and sing with me,” the High Khalkar said.

            So Altaf and Kalila took one another’s outstretched hands in a grip so light and grudging that Dasaf had to swallow his own chuckle. Then all three of them sang a brief prayer, the High Khalkar’s voice overwhelming those of Kalila and Altaf. Once it was all done, the High Khalkar smeared wet mud on both of their palms and finished the official ceremony. A cry of approval rose across both the Matij and the Khamal, and for a moment Dasaf couldn’t tell the difference between either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is confused about how titles work with the Hahnars. . .
> 
> Shuman-- "ma'am" or "milady". 
> 
> Shuma-- "sir" or "milord"
> 
> Honored-- usually given to an elder or parent, but can also be used in place of "shuman" or "shuma".
> 
> As for the "Darim" thing . . . Darim is not a last name. Darim Altaf in fact has two names, one passed down by his father's line and the other used as a personal name. "Altaf" is a familiar name only used by family members or friends. Everyone else has to call him "Darim", since that is seen as more respectful. All children are given this first name, so Dasaf is TECHNICALLY "Darim Dasaf", but he is second-born, meaning that he is Darim only in very formal instances, i.e. when his lineage is important. Usually only first-born boys are given that first name as an actual name that others call them. Their siblings after them (or if the first born is a girl) are just referred to as their second name.   
> A fake history lesson for ja'll. :D


	20. Restraint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gsRZ2Fz_SXY) for this chapter

 

            Altaf wanted no part in the festivities, so Dasaf made excuses for him and together they headed back to their private quarters.

            “I do feel sick,” Altaf admitted. “My stomach feels like liquid.”

            “Maybe they poisoned the milk,” Dasaf joked.

            “Is it normal to feel this way?”

            Dasaf shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been betrothed.”

            “Why not?”

            “Well . . . my father was so often preoccupied with Haadi. And my mother was very invested in protecting me, so it just . . . never happened.” Dasaf had so often been a disappointment to his father that his father had given up trying after a while. At the time Dasaf had been upset about it, but now he was glad. His mother had saved him from Haadi’s fate.

            “But you were at my father’s betrothal.”

            “I was.”

            “What was that like?”

            “It was . . . about the same as yours, really. He did not know Malika, nor did she know him. Very stiff, very formal. He was about your age though, maybe a year younger.”

            “But . . .” Altaf looked down at his feet. “Mama and Papa did not get along well after their marriage.”

            “They did better than my parents.”

            “Am I doomed to be miserable?”

            “Of course not. You are not like Zhad or Haadi. I’ve found that if you treat a woman with respect and compassion, she tends _not_ to make your life miserable. But if she still does, well . . . it’s a big alcazar. There are ways of avoiding people.” Unless that person was Shallaf.

            “I didn’t even see her face.”

            “Yes, the Matij are very protective of their women.”

            “That’s stupid. It’s just a face.”

            Dasaf chuckled. Altaf got his bluntness from his mother. “The Matij think poorly of a man’s ability to control himself.”

            Altaf snorted, then fell silent for a time. He reached up to pull off his turban, shoving it under his arm to carry it.

            “Uncle? I . . . for a long time I’ve wanted to kill Mullis, like you.”

            Dasaf paused, glancing down at his nephew. “Why?”

            “Everyone talks about it. But . . .” Altaf bit his lip, then looked up at Dasaf. “It didn’t feel satisfying at all. I only felt sad.”

            “That is the appropriate reaction to death.”

            “But he was a Mulli! Why should I care?”

            “Because he suffered.”

            Altaf seemed to consider this, then nodded. “They should have given me an equal opponent. I didn’t feel brave killing him. I felt like a common savage.”  
            Dasaf stretched his arm around Altaf’s shoulders, squeezing him. “What you did was the right thing. Swift, clean mercy. Torture is not the Khamal way. We do what we must and no more. That man was suffering, and you ended it for him.”

            “But Mulli suffering is—”

            “—like any man’s suffering. There is a point at which a man stops being Mulli and simply becomes a man.”

            “If that’s true, why do you still have that Mulli prisoner locked up?”

            Damn the wisdom of children. “I promised I wouldn’t kill him, not after he helped give information on the Mullis.”

            “He could have lied.”

            “He could have. If he has, he will sorely regret it.”

            “If he helped, shouldn’t we let him go?”

            “When he is healed.”

            “He should be healed by now.”

            They stopped outside Altaf’s bedchamber door. Dasaf stepped in front of him and took both of his shoulders in his hands. “When you are Sumas, you can make whatever decisions you want.”

            Altaf frowned. “Not true. I still have to marry this Matij girl.”

            “Alright, there is one decision you cannot make.”

            Altaf pulled away from Dasaf’s hands, his fingers gripping the doorknob. “The older I get, the less I believe that a Sumas does what he wants.” Then he nodded and pushed open his door. “Have a good night, Uncle.”

 

* * *

 

            Asan hadn’t been able to resist the books. He’d been sitting in Dasaf’s bedchamber for ten minutes, but his eyes kept wandering back to the shelves of bound novels, so he finally slid off the bed and reached for a thick red leather book, pulling it out carefully and flipping to the center. What greeted him was nothing he could understand—it was all in Hahnar. Still, it smelled musty and rich, like Elder Hassad’s library. Asan lifted the book to his nose and inhaled. How he wished he could have brought his books with him here. He had been yearning to read and draw since his arrival, but he hadn’t the courage to ask Dasaf for anything as expensive as a book.

            Even though the words were in Hahnar, Asan settled for looking at the illustrations. They were colorful and detailed, even if they were faded by time. Unlike the tales Asan had read, every figure in this story had inky skin, pictured even darker than any Hahnar that Asan had seen. They were dressed extravagantly, some wearing furs and dresses gilded with gold. Perhaps this book had come from the Hahnars beyond the mountain—no Khamal Hahnar dressed so opulently. It was strange and new, so Asan perched himself on the bed and looked through it, marveling at the golden spires and beautiful cities he found within the pages. Maybe one day he’d travel beyond the mountain to the city of the Hahnars, with its rainbow-colored birds and monstrous beasts with noses longer than a man stood tall. It must be a sight to see.

            Asan was pulled from his daydreaming when he saw the front door swing open. Quickly he closed the book and placed it beside him, moments before Dasaf entered. Asan’s breath came short at the sight of him. Asan wasn’t sure when that had started happening, but his best guess was right after he saw Dasaf naked.

            Heat rushed through Asan, and before Dasaf could say anything, Asan stood and strode over to him. Asan registered Dasaf’s look of shock before Asan’s arms were around his neck, crushing their mouths together. Asan had spent years yearning for just this—it was time to act on it.

            Dasaf’s arms swallowed Asan’s torso, his hands digging into each of his shoulder blades. Then Dasaf’s tongue was hot and wet against Asan’s lips, and Asan opened them to allow it inside. He brought his hands away from Dasaf’s head and began to pull at his belt and sash, trying to do whatever he could to feel flesh under his hands as quickly as possible. He must have not been the only one to feel this way, because then Dasaf’s fingers were tugging at his tunic, pulling it toward Asan’s head. Asan lifted his arms, and his tunic was thrown away with a sweep of Dasaf’s arms. Their bodies crashed together again, Dasaf’s arms briefly releasing him so they could slide out of the sleeves of his caftan.

            Asan wasn’t entirely sure how they’d made it to the bed, but he knew both of them were half-naked by the time they got there. Silk slithered under Asan’s skin as Dasaf knelt over him, mouth moving from Asan’s lips to his chin, then down to his throat. Asan stared at the sheer veil draped over the bed, heart pounding so hard he could feel blood thrumming in his head and at the end of each extremity, especially the one between his legs. Books talked of lust as if it were akin to wrath, selfishness, and avarice. But how could something so perfect be a sin? It had been a long time since Asan had felt so blissfully alive.

            Asan wanted to kiss Dasaf again, so he grappled with the back of Dasaf’s neck, trying to tug him upward. But Dasaf pulled his hands away and kissed the fingertips of both before giving Asan a lurid look, filled with delicious promise. Then his head dropped lower, his lips sliding a trail down Asan’s chest, his tongue dipping into Asan’s belly button. Asan inhaled sharply, needing something to bite or kiss or _something_. He pressed his arm over his eyes, hoping that darkness might help him retain some control over his body, which was already flushed with heat and sweat. He yelped in surprise when he felt Dasaf’s fingers hook inside the top of his trousers.

            “Dasaf?” Asan asked, though he was relatively sure it came out as something completely different. He was not in control of his voice at the moment, and the knowledge that he could not communicate at all made him feel both helpless and daring.

            Dasaf sat up, running a hand along the arch of Asan’s rib cage, which protruded further as his breath quickened. He seemed to know what he was doing, so for now Asan decided to trust him. Asan had only kissed a man once, but Dasaf seemed confident. Briefly Asan wondered if Dasaf did such a thing with Shallaf. No, it was best not to think of _that_. His chest constricted in pain just imagining it.

            Dasaf’s hands returned to Asan’s trousers again, and when he caught Asan’s gaze, Asan found himself mute. All he could do was watch helplessly as Dasaf pulled the fabric low enough to free Asan’s length. Asan was both horribly embarrassed and horribly aroused at once, which made him re-cover his eyes with his arm. Moments later he felt Dasaf’s hand on him, moving slowly and curiously. Reflexively, Asan tried to clamp his legs together, but Dasaf’s other hand pressed against the inside of his thigh, circling there in a soothing gesture.

            Then suddenly there was something wet and warm on his arousal, and Asan shouted in surprise. He jerked, tearing his arms away to gape at Dasaf, who was bent over him, mouth inches from his cock.

            “What?!” Asan exclaimed, scrambling to a sit and nearly kicking Dasaf in the face.

            Dasaf appeared confused and amused at once. “I’m sorry. Haven’t you ever . . .?”

            Asan just stared, legs coiling around his body, protecting himself. He wasn’t disgusted, just . . . shocked.

            “Perhaps I am being too forward,” Dasaf said around a slight smile. Asan had been hoping to keep some dignity by at least _pretending_ he knew what he was doing. Now Dasaf could truly see how green he was, and it made half of Asan’s body flush violently red. He hated to look foolish, as many people already assumed he was. Even Fasa had considered him simple at one point.

            “I . . . didn’t know,” Asan said slowly. “Surprise me.”

            “I apologize. I should have said something.”

            Asan shook his head, slowly stretching his legs out. It took a great deal of willpower to keep him from hiding himself with his hands. “Is okay.”

            “Here.” Dasaf slid off the bed and stood, holding out his hand for Asan to take. When Asan took it, Dasaf pulled him over to sit on the edge of the bed, maneuvering his legs so that Dasaf could kneel between them. That was probably what shocked Asan the most, the fact that Khamal’s Sumas was kneeling at Asan’s feet. Asan tried not to think too hard about it, as Dasaf looked perfectly comfortable.

            “Would you like me to continue?” Dasaf asked, peering up at Asan.

            Asan nodded weakly. Then he closed his eyes and hissed when Dasaf’s hands returned to his length. Dasaf’s hands were larger than his, because they did not fit the same way on Asan’s cock as Asan’s usually did. Just when Asan began to shift uncomfortably and consider asking Dasaf to wet his fingers with oil, Dasaf’s head dipped down again, taking Asan’s length between his lips. Asan nearly fell over, but managed to brace himself with shaking arms.

            He quickly learned why Raheed might want to hire whores.

            Asan scrambled for something to grab that was not Dasaf. So he leaned over and wrapped quivering fingers around a bedpost, which quickly grew damp under his palm. He fisted the sheets beneath him with the other, clenching his eyes shut in hopes it might stave off the inevitable. The air in his lungs escaped in a disappointing sigh when Dasaf raised his head. He was laughing.

            “What?” Asan asked, feeling stupid again.

            Dasaf pushed himself to one knee, reaching up and pulling Asan’s head down so that their mouths could meet. When he leaned away, there was a smile on his lips.          

            “What?” Asan asked again.

            “You are being very loud,” Dasaf chuckled.

            “What?” Asan’s mind had deteriorated so far that he could barely read Dasaf’s lips, let alone digest his words.

            “I don’t mind it, of course. But my nephew _does_ sleep just down the hall . . .”

            Asan finally understood and giggled nervously. Dasaf stopped him with another kiss, this one firmer than the last. When he ducked his head, Asan shoved a hand in his mouth, hoping it might help. Most of the time he knew when he was making noise via vibrations in his throat. But in his state, he was focused on only one part of his body.

            For years now, Asan had become quite adept at delaying completion. Sometimes he was too weak to keep his hands off of himself, but he was rarely so weak to find gratification. As he neared his peak, the usual guilt and shame crashed into him, a learned response to his pleasure. He scrambled to shove Dasaf off without thinking, his hands sliding in the sweat along Dasaf’s shoulders. Dasaf pulled back, watching Asan’s entire body fold inward. Asan crossed his arms over his chest and drew his heels up onto the edge of the bed, baring any further sensation against his cock.

            “What is wrong?” Dasaf asked.

            Asan shook his head. “Can’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “Wrong.”

            Dasaf raised his eyebrows. “What is? What I’m doing?”

            Asan shook his head. He could not explain, even if he had the ability to do so. Sometimes he felt as if his desire were inextricably linked to Raheed, and that both made him feel like a perverted worm. He had wanted Raheed, and because of this he touched himself. But touching himself to Raheed was _wrong_ , and so touching himself at all was wrong. _God puts lust in us to teach us restraint_ , Elder Hassad had said. _Weak men give in. Strong men prevail_. Asan wished he could be the beggar boy who hadn’t thought anything of it, who came to completion because it felt good and nothing more. Now he was so wrapped around sin and unrequited love that he didn’t know how to untangle himself.

            A hand slid along the edge of Asan’s jaw, and he looked up at Dasaf, who had lifted himself to both knees. The panic in Asan dulled.

            “It is okay,” Dasaf said, placing his free hand on the other side of Asan’s face, “to feel this way. You think I never did?”

            Asan rested his forehead against Dasaf’s, feeling pressure behind his eyes but forcing it back with every ounce of will. Tears would not impress a man like Dasaf.

            “I know nothing,” Asan whispered, finally in control of his tongue.

            “It is the preface to knowing _something_ ,” Dasaf replied, his lips brushing Asan’s. Asan leaned into the contact, stroking his mouth against Dasaf’s. Thoughts of Elder Hassad and Raheed and old scriptures faded away. Asan’s feet dropped back to the floor, and his hands sought out either side of Dasaf’s neck. At least this felt right, if nothing else.

            They spent a good five minutes just kissing, Dasaf kneeling on the floor and Asan seated over him. Finally Dasaf pulled back, his hands falling to the top of Asan’s thighs.

            “Stay with me tonight,” Dasaf requested. “As much or as little can happen as you wish, but I would appreciate your company.”

            Asan didn’t even think about it. He just nodded.

           

* * *

 

            Asan woke to weak sunlight streaming through several latticed windows, windows that were not his own. It took him a second to remember, but when he did, he smiled.

            Asan slipped out of bed and crossed the cold tile floor to the window. Dawn was approaching outside, lighting the sky a delicate lilac. When he looked over his shoulder, he was pleased to find that Dasaf had barely moved from where he’d collapsed.

            After returning to the bed, Asan slipped underneath the covers, already shivering in the morning chill. It was odd to sleep naked, but not unpleasant. Something about the feeling of silk against bare skin was vaguely stimulating. What was even better was Dasaf’s nudity. Asan wasn’t sure if it would ever cease to amaze him. If he’d had any doubt about his attraction to men, it had vanished by now. Dasaf was unapologetically male, from his full beard to his muscled chest, and Asan loved every inch of it. He wondered how long he would have to stare at Dasaf before he grew bored. Much longer than one morning, that was for sure.

            Smiling to himself, Asan dropped his cheek to Dasaf’s abdomen, left bare by tangled sheets. Then he ran his fingers along the valleys and ridges of skin, muscle, and bone that made the landscape of Dasaf’s chest. Dasaf slept through all of it, which was a slight surprise. Asan could only imagine what Raheed would do if Asan had done so much to him. Raheed had learned to be a light sleeper when his survival depended on it.

            Asan turned his face and pressed his lips to Dasaf’s stomach. Then, unsatisfied, he continued his way up across Dasaf’s chest until he reached the dip in his collarbone. When he lifted his eyes, he saw Dasaf staring down at him.

            “Morning,” Asan said.

            “Crazy servants, up at the break of dawn,” Dasaf replied, then grinned. “If you’re going to kiss me, best do it right.”

            Asan chuckled and lifted himself higher to capture Dasaf’s mouth with his own. It was still hard to believe that he was lying here doing such a thing, to the Sumas of all people. Perhaps he was dreaming. He was known to have raunchy dreams before.

            “Oh, I don’t want to go to breakfast,” Dasaf said as he pulled back from Asan. “I just want to lie here all day and shirk all responsibilities.”

            Asan nodded in agreement.

            “I must see the Matij off.” Dasaf made a face as if he could think of little else less pleasant.

            Asan didn’t really have an answer, so he just kissed Dasaf again. Dasaf sighed against his mouth and lifted a hand to trace light patterns over Asan’s shoulder blades. When Asan pulled back, Dasaf’s other hand pulled at the curled hair at the nape of Asan’s neck.

            “What am I going to do with you?” Dasaf asked.

            “Give me book,” Asan replied.

            “What does that mean?”

            “I draw.”

            Dasaf pushed his arms under himself, sitting up on his elbows. Asan pulled back to let him rise. “What do you mean?”

            Asan pretended to wield a pen. “Draw.”

            “You need something to draw in?”

            Asan nodded. “I had, but . . . left in camp with Mullis.”

            “Well then. I can certainly get you that, if you wish. And other books too.” Dasaf looked past Asan at the bookshelves behind him. “I fear almost all my books are in Hahnar. There is one in Aillic, but it is a primer. Not anything you would find interesting.”

            “Learn Hahnar,” Asan said.

            “It will be difficult, considering . . . well. You cannot hear.”

            “I read. I learn Aillic.”

            Dasaf sighed, finally sitting up fully. “If you would like to learn Hahnar, I can teach you. I may not have the time—”

            “Fasa teach me.”

            “Yes, Fasa. She knows Hahnar. But does she read?”

            “I teach.”

            “Hmm. Well, if both of you need a tutor, I imagine Leyla would be up to the task. She’s very much into her books and scrolls.”

            Asan grinned and leaned forward to peck Dasaf on the lips. Before Dasaf could push the contact further, Asan scrambled off the bed and reached for his clothing. He would be expected to serve the family breakfast, as Mana would probably be late, as she always was.

            “Leaving already?” Dasaf asked.

            “Work.”

            “Damn it, Asan, I’m the Sumas. If I say you don’t have to work this morning, then you don’t have to work this morning.”

            Asan bent down to push his feet into his slippers. “I work.”

            “You could stay with me.”

            Asan paused. It was a very tempting offer. His eyes darted to Dasaf’s bare chest, his skin nearly glowing in the dawn sunlight. For a moment Asan considered tossing duty to the wind and crawling back into bed. Dasaf had merely stroked him to completion last night; maybe they could try again with Dasaf’s mouth, like he had attempted before. Asan might be able to handle it this time. In fact, he knew he would.

            But there was something he needed to know, and he had to know it when his affection for Dasaf was still fresh. So he shook his head, trying to look apologetic.

            “Tonight,” Asan promised. “Tonight I return.”

            Dasaf seemed disappointed, but nodded. “I will wait for you.”

            Knowing that anyone would wait for Asan sent a thrill through his Asan’s swollen heart. Asan dove back onto the bed, wrapping his arms and mouth around Dasaf. The force of his attack nearly barreled Dasaf over, but he managed to keep his balance and latch onto Asan with a similar ferocity.

            When Asan pulled away, it was physically painful. They’d only embraced in such a way twice so far, but Asan could imagine doing it for centuries. Fearing that he’d never leave, he gave Dasaf a doleful smile and then darted out of the room.

             

* * *

 

            “What sort of potions have you been drinking, Asan?” Leyla asked as Asan trotted down the path alongside her, occasionally leaping like an acrobatic child onto the boulders that lined it. He threw her a smile over his shoulder before returning to her side.

            “No potions,” he replied. He wanted to tell _someone_ , but he knew that was impossible. So he tried to keep his good mood to himself.

            Leyla had brought two guards with her, and they stood by the door as Leyla and Asan entered Raheed’s room. He was sitting in a corner, tracing lines in the dirt with a sharp rock. He jolted when Asan entered, then smiled through the shag that had grown around his jaw.

            Asan paused in the doorway, waiting for the usual swell of his chest and shortness of breath. It was there, just like always. Yet it felt different, calmer. There wasn’t the usual wave of lust, probably because Asan had drained all of that last night. In its place was the warm affection that had been there since the beginning, when Asan was a beggar boy and Raheed was a young naïve soldier.

            This was what Asan needed to know. Did he still feel the same way for Raheed? Had Dasaf taken his place? Looking at him now, Asan knew that Dasaf could never replace Raheed. But Raheed could not hope to replace Dasaf. They were two vastly different men who tore Asan in different directions. History and loyalty tied Asan to Raheed, but desire and promise chased Asan toward Dasaf. If anything, he was only _more_ confused, which hadn’t been the purpose for coming down here.

            Asan decided to put it aside for contemplation later.

            “Look!” he exclaimed, holding up the jug of water and soap he’d brought. When he set it down, he signed, _I want to give you a shave._

“How much of a shave?” Raheed asked suspiciously. He seemed unwilling to go beardless, even when his beard had lost all symbolic meaning.

            _Just enough so that you do not look like a beggar,_ Asan replied with a smile.

            Raheed’s eyes flickered to Leyla. “I would like to take a bath, actually. That would be heaven.”

            Leyla seemed unsure, but then she nodded. “I will do what I can.”

            Thinking of what had happened during Asan’s _last_ bath, Asan couldn’t help but flush slightly as he helped Raheed to a stand. He doubted such a gift was in store for him today. Raheed was still weak, and he smelled far less pleasant than Dasaf ever had.

            Leyla had the guards escort Raheed blindfolded to the nearest bathhouse, this one located just outside of the alcazar and mostly free of decoration. The water wasn’t as hot as it was in Dasaf’s personal bath, but it was definitely better than the buckets of muddy water Mulli soldiers used to bathe with in the desert. Asan asked the guards to wait outside, promising Leyla that he could handle Raheed. She seemed unsure, but she nodded and stepped out of the room as well.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so inviting,” Raheed said, sliding his arm out of Asan’s and pulling his tunic over his head. “I would like to stay in all day.”

            Asan assisted Raheed with his garments and guided him down the steps into the warm pool of water. Raheed appeared to melt as he sat, his head dropping back against the pool’s edge as the dark water lapped at his collar bone. Asan kept his eyes on the floor as he lathered up his soap and handed a sudsy cloth to Raheed.

            “Thank you,” Raheed said, then began to scrub himself. As Raheed worked on his body, Asan wet his hands and started on Raheed’s hair. Asan tried not to enjoy the sensation too much, but it was hard to focus on anything else. Even wet, Raheed’s hair curled at the ends, swirling around his ears and along the nape of his neck. Usually he kept it short, but it was nearly Asan’s length at the moment. Asan could get a full handful of it now.

            When Asan rinsed out the soap in Raheed’s hair, Raheed turned and knelt on the underwater bench. Asan put his legs over the side of the pool and lathered up Raheed’s beard before sliding the shaving blade along his jaw. He was rather good at it now, considering how many times he’d done it before. Yet seeing the end result always put a small spring in his heart.

            Raheed had lost significant weight, so he was no longer the stalwart Mulli warrior Asan had always looked up to. But with his beard trimmed and his hair clean, Asan saw that he was on the path to his former self. No woman could claim he wasn’t handsome, even with the dark bags under his eyes and slightly sunken cheeks. Asan had to clasp his hands together to keep himself from pushing stray hairs off of Raheed’s forehead and from around his ears, where they stuck with glistening beads of water.

            “I think I will stay in here all day,” Raheed said as he sank deeper into the water, only stopping when it touched his bottom lip. “Would you like to join me?”

            Asan shook his head. He knew what happened _last_ time he shared someone’s bath . . .

            “Please?” Raheed asked. “I spend all my days alone in that blasted hut. I want to talk to you, ask you what has been happening. You’ve not been visiting as often as you once did.”

            Asan bit his lip, fighting off guilt. He should have been paying more attention to Raheed, perhaps demanding that Dasaf release him. After all, Raheed was nearly at full strength now, plenty capable of . . . well, _leaving_. Perhaps that was why Asan had neglected to think about it. Dasaf had given him a choice, and Asan had chosen to stay. This meant that Raheed had to go. Just the thought of losing Raheed made Asan’s gut roll. He wouldn’t say goodbye to Raheed, not again. Raheed might not be leaving for war this time, but he was certainly leaving for the unknown. And considering the option Asan had chosen, Raheed would probably never return.

            _I can stay_ , Asan finally replied.

            Raheed nodded with relief. Quickly, Asan pulled off his garments and sank into the water opposite Raheed. Raheed stretched his arms along the rim of the pool as he sank deeper into the water.

            _Can you get me out of the city_? Raheed asked. He probably spoke silently now in case any guards or Leyla lingered.

            _You will be released when you are well._

_I am nearly well now_.

            _Dasaf promised that you would be released eventually._

“Eventually?” Raheed asked aloud. “What does _that_ mean?”

            _When you are well._

_Then he should let me go now_ , Raheed replied in frustration. _Why would he just release me anyway?_

_You told them about the Mullis._

_That was to save my life,_ not _to earn me freedom._

Asan looked away. He was a poor liar. He knew he’d have to tell Raheed the truth.

            “Asan?” Raheed asked carefully.

            _Dasaf promised me he’d release you_ , Asan finally said.

            _Why would he promise such a thing?_

Asan took a deep breath. _Because I promised I would stay in your place_.

            Raheed gaped at Asan for a long, tense moment before dropping his arms into the water with a splash. His suspicion morphed into anger, and Asan shrank away.

            “What kind of _bargain_ is that?” Raheed blurted. “You’re my servant, not some sort of—of _accomplice_!”

            _It was a deal Dasaf offered. I wanted to save your life, so I did what I had to. He has treated me well_ —

            “But you’re still a prisoner! Why didn’t you tell me this?”

            Asan only shrugged. He knew what it must look like, sacrificing his own freedom for the life of a soldier. No ordinary servant would do such a thing. But Raheed knew they were friends, didn’t he? Raheed would have done the same, right?

            _We must escape together then_ , Raheed continued, his movements quick and forceful. _There is no way I’m leaving you here._

Asan’s heart clenched, because it was proof that Raheed cared for him. Yet he didn’t really _want_ to leave. So far Khamal had been kinder to him than Khafa or Ayllamal, and he saw no reason to leave beyond Raheed. Would he be willing to follow his first love into the unknown, abandoning the first place he saw as home?

            _Dasaf would look for us_.

            _We could leave on Ahmbra. She is quick. She could carry us far._

_I’m not leaving without Nutmeg._

“Asan, I can get you another camel.”

            Asan frowned. _No. I only want Nutmeg_.

            Raheed sighed and rubbed his forehead. “She will slow us down.”

            _She can be fast._

“A camel is fast like a scorpion is friendly.” Frowning at Asan’s expression, Raheed groaned. “Asan, this is non-negotiable!”      

            _I don’t even know if I_ want _to leave,_ Asan said without thinking.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            _I like it here_.

            Raheed sighed, lifting an arm to scratch at the back of his neck. Water dribbled along his forearm, and the glisten of his skin was entirely too distracting. “I can imagine why. But . . . you will always be _faskii_ to these Hahnars, Asan. They will never see you as an equal, especially when they treat you like a servant.”

            _I_ am _a servant_. Asan frowned. _Besides, you treat me the same way._

            “Because I had to.”

            Asan didn’t believe him. He shook his head. _I stopped being your friend a long time ago. Now I am just the man who cooks your food and washes your smallclothes_.

            _That’s not true!_ Raheed insisted. _Even if it were, I can’t imagine the Hahnars are any different_.

            _Dasaf is_.

            “Is he your friend now? What has he done to earn your loyalty? According to you he has imprisoned you in exchange for my life!”

            Frustration bubbled in Asan’s throat. He wanted to shout, but he knew the words would come out garbled. So he signed forcefully as he replied, _Dasaf does not yell at me! He does not stumble in at night drunk and reeking of arak! He does not order me around like I’m some dog_!

            Raheed opened his mouth, then closed it and looked away, his brow heavy with anger. But the fact that he stopped himself seemed as if he had seen the truth just as Asan had.

            Asan sank deeper into the water, folding his arms over his chest and watching the water bead along his skin.

            “I’m sorry,” Raheed said eventually with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Asan.”

            Asan had not been expecting an apology. But he was still irate, so he did not reply.

            Raheed continued. “I . . . my behavior was atrocious. I’ve spent a lot of time by myself lately, and a lot of that time has been spent hating myself and the harm I’ve inflicted on others. I can’t apologize to the ones I’ve killed, but I can apologize to you. You did not deserve that treatment. I was hurting because of Malli and Elder Hassad and the whole _mess_ and I took it out on you. I was a fool. You are the only person I trust in this world, and you deserve better than the way I treated you.”

            Damn him. Every time Asan convinced himself he could get over Raheed, Raheed proved himself so wonderfully perfect. No one had apologized to Asan. Asan didn’t know how to handle it.

            _You saved my life_ , Asan said eventually. _All is forgiven._

            “I don’t believe that,” Raheed replied, but he was smiling slightly. “Even you can hold grudges.”

            _Not against you_ , Asan thought, but luckily he did not say it. When Raheed was all shaved and scrubbed clean, Asan couldn’t find it in himself to stay angry. Why was he so vulnerable to handsome men? Was it like this for Raheed and pretty whores? Asan imagined it was.

            _At least think about leaving with me_ , Raheed said after a long moment during which they did not speak. _The desert is a lonely place, and I’d prefer you there with me._

            If only Raheed could comprehend the power of those words. Asan had dreamed of such a thing, roaming the desert with Raheed and perhaps one day convincing him of his undying love. Without whores, would Raheed fall to Asan’s charms? He’d have to _find_ those charms first, as Asan had no clue what they might be. Still, perhaps there was a sliver of hope. Without women, maybe . . . But there were whores in every town, and they could not live without some visits to civilization. And would Asan really want to be with Raheed if Raheed only touched him out of desperation? They would _jusefs_ as Dasaf had described it, men who sought each other’s company because there was nothing else, who parted ways when brighter prospects appeared. But only Raheed would be departing. Asan would always be there, waiting.

            _I will talk to Dasaf_ , Asan finally said. _I will talk to him about freeing you_.

            “You have such sway over him?”

            At this, Asan smiled, though his smile was bittersweet. _Yes. I think I do_.


	21. A Promise

**Chapter Twenty-One: A Promise**

 

            Leyla preferred Raheed covered in hair and dirt. Seeing him trimmed and washed merely reminded her of whatever feelings she’d been trying to squash. When Asan and Raheed emerged from the baths, he looked like someone she’d never seen before. Even when he’d arrived at the alcazar he’d had a week’s worth of facial hair, as well as skin crusted with blood and sand. At the time she might have doubted his station, but she could see now how he could be a captain in the Mulli army. He both had the ferocity of a Mulli soldier and the good looks she’d merely only glimpsed before.

            Raheed said goodbye to Asan with a firm embrace before stepping forward to be blindfolded. Asan gave a nod to Leyla and then trotted away, leaving Leyla in charge of Raheed and the guards. With a sigh, she led them all back to the stables.

            Asan had brought Raheed a simple white robe, but it was better than what they’d dressed him in previously. She could almost imagine him with a sword atop that magnificent horse of his. She scolded herself for such an errant imagination. Mullis were not majestic people—they were barbarians. They killed and raped her people, including her mother-in-law, who had been a magnanimous and compassionate person. She tried to tell herself that as they walked along the path.

            Finally they reached the stables. The guards dropped Raheed in his “cell” and departed, standing just outside the door so that Leyla could call for them if need be. She pulled off his blindfold and folded it over her arm.

            “I sure missed this room,” Raheed said with a smirk. He looked over at her. “You look sunny today.”

            Leyla looked down at her pale yellow caftan. “I like warm colors. You look rather well yourself. You clean up nicely.”

            “If I had a mirror, I could agree with you.” He ran a hand over his chin. “How kind of Asan to give me my captain’s beard back.”

            “I have heard that Mullis denote status by their beards?”

            “Yes.”

            “So if you are a peasant but you grow a full beard, what would happen to you?”

            “You’d be thrown in the dungeon for being a liar.”

            “Ah. You Mullis take your facial hair very seriously. I suppose the lack of a beard makes you worthless.”

            “About, yes.”

            “And this includes women.”

            Raheed frowned. “As if Hahnars are any better.”

            “Khamal women are held in very high-esteem.”

            “I noticed that around the time a bunch of Khamal crones called me _Mulli dog_ and demanded details on war tactics.”

            “One day I hope to be one of those _crones_ you disdain so much. Malika as well.”

            “Ah yes, your ill-tempered sister. I can’t forget her.”

            “Do you resent all women who treat you ill?”

            “To be fair, I don’t particularly care for your brother-in-law either. In fact, he is my least favorite.” Raheed sighed and slumped down onto his makeshift bed. “Asan seems rather loyal to him.”

            “Dasaf likes Asan. He has extended every courtesy to him in hopes that Asan will feel at home.”

            “Why?”

            “Why?” Leyla repeated, confused.

            “Yes, _why_? Asan is _faskii_ and the servant of a dirty _Mulli dog_ , as you all call me. There is nothing to be gained from treating him with any kindness, save perhaps Asan’s work as a valuable servant. I am suspicious of why Dasaf would treat him so well if there wasn’t anything in it for him.”

            Leyla sank to a sit across from him. “You don’t know my brother. He needs no motive to treat others with generosity.”

            “Even a _faskii_?”

            Leyla sighed. It _was_ unlike Dasaf to extend such courtesy to a _faskii_ , and Leyla believed his kindness was not entirely unrelated to Asan’s handsome face. However, she had to give Dasaf some credit. He was an excellent host and had more empathy than Haadi could have ever comprehended. Even if Asan were ugly and old, Dasaf would have at least extended some basic hospitality—a place to stay, warm meals, time to regain his strength.

            “Maybe he’s doing it to spite me,” Raheed muttered. “Showing my servant courtesy while I rot in a cell.”

            Leyla shook her head. “I’m relatively sure it has nothing to do with you.”

            “He really does seem to hate me. Which is odd, considering how our first encounter was. He seemed well-humored then.”

            “You both were much younger.” Dasaf had mentioned it to her once, only in passing. She recalled the trouble that awaited him once news of Raheed’s release moved through the alcazar. Malika had been furious. At the time, Dasaf had assumed a Sumas could do what he liked, including pardons.

            He learned his lesson quickly after that.

            “I suppose. I’ve killed many men since then, and I’m sure he has as well.”

            Leyla didn’t really wish to discuss it. There had been a time when Dasaf would come to her late at night and talk on and on about the guilt and shame that executing vagrant Mullis brought him. Such confessions had stopped, and now Dasaf faced death with the usual scowl his brother had worn. That scared Leyla, that she should see Haadi in Dasaf. Malika might have grown thick skin, but Leyla had always been terrified of the elder brother, who showed her sister no kindness and made servants scamper upon his arrival. Part of her was glad that he had died before he’d wielded much influence over his son. She asked God forgiveness for that, as Haadi had been her brother, just like Dasaf.

            “What does Dasaf plan to do with me?” Raheed asked.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Asan says he will release me.”

            Leyla sighed. “I don’t see much likelihood of that happening.”

            “That’s what I thought. Asan is bright, but he trusts too easily. I see no reason why Dasaf should free me. I am of no use to him gone, but I suppose I have some value as a prisoner.”

            “Did you tell him all you knew about the Mulli army’s plans?”

            “Of course I did. Fuck the Mulli army. Fuck Yussam, and fuck the caliph.” Raheed scowled, then winced. “I shouldn’t swear like this in front of a woman.”

            “The Council fears that you’ve lied. You told them the Mullis only had plans to take the Hahnars beyond the mountain.”

            “That’s true. Well, it was true _then_. Plans change. And if they do, I’ll certainly be labeled a liar and executed.”

            “That’s not fair.”

            Raheed shrugged, sinking deeper into his bed. “Death doesn’t really scare me anymore.”

            Leyla wanted to hit him. Maybe _he_ didn’t care, but Asan certainly did, and to a degree, so did she. _To a degree_. Certainly she didn’t care _that much_ , because she was not a foolish woman who sacrificed reason for infatuation. That was Malika, not sensible Leyla. Well, it _had_ been Malika. Perhaps at some point they had switched places, Malika standing her ground while Leyla yearned for silly handsome men. 

            They sat there for a moment, and Leyla wondered if she should leave.

            “Are you ever going to kiss me again?” Raheed asked softly.

            “What?” Her voice emerged loud, probably loud enough for the guards to hear.

            Raheed lifted his eyebrows. “I was just wondering. You’re a proper woman, of course, but there are no windows large enough for the guards to see, so you _could_ get away with maybe a kiss or two . . .”

            Leyla frowned. “It was a moment of weakness, the time before.”

            “To only have such a moment of weakness _once . . ._ how nice that must be.”

            “I owe you nothing.”

            “Of course not. But . . . if you _wanted to_ , at least now I don’t smell like a corpse. It might be more pleasant if you tried again.”

            “I shouldn’t have the first time.” Leyla tried to look proud, but it was hard when her entire face was on fire.  She turned away from him, because she didn’t care for the look in his eyes, like he was testing her.

            As much as she’d wanted to put that night out of her mind, her dreams always lingered on it. When she was younger, some nights she would wake from fantasies of handsome strangers with experienced hands, but only recently had they become so explicit. Thinking about them made her cringe and ache at once.

            “If anyone found out . . .” Leyla whispered.

            “Then they would kill me and spare me the long wait.”

            “But what about _me_?”

            “Are you planning on getting married anyway?”

            Not exactly. She was much too old now for any man to take any interest in her, at least anyone but Dasaf, who was still in need of a wife. Still, a reputation was one of the few things a woman owned, and to tarnish it was to throw away a fortune.

            “Leyla.”

            Leyla glanced over at him, then swore to herself. Damn him and that pleading expression of his. Now that his hair was drying, his curls stood up in various directions, some flopping over his forehead and around his ears. His skin was clean and flushed from the baths, looking softer than it ever had before.

            “I can’t,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t.”

            “If you cannot, then you cannot.” There was disappointment in Raheed’s voice, but understanding as well. Perhaps that was why she found it so hard to refuse him—because she knew he’d let her.

            Letting out a long sigh of defeat, Leyla turned leaned forward to kiss him. She began the contact with stubborn force, but Raheed took her face in both of his hands, pulling her back slightly so that the kiss could soften. He was very adept at this sort of thing, leading to her own feelings of inadequacy. Maybe he accepted such affection because she was the only woman he’d really seen for months. Did he really care about her? Was she merely a person of convenience? Was he hoping that she might pounce on him like a wife does a husband? Men made all sorts of promises until consequences of their actions arose. Then they were gone into the night, and the woman was left with the burden of his pleasure.

            Leyla began to pull away, but Raheed caught her arm, holding her just inches from him.

            “What is it that you want frame me, Leyla?”

            _A re-enactment of all my debauched dreams_ , Leyla wanted to say. His hands were so wonderful in them, his lips tasting of honey. Heat rose to her face just thinking about it.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Because you come here to tease me and then you leave, and I’m just wondering if this is how it will always be until Dasaf decides to behead me.”

            “I . . .” Leyla bit her lip and turned away. “I don’t know, Raheed. Truly. I’m so confused at the moment. You are _Mulli_ , for God’s sake. You would shudder to hear all the things Khamal women say of Mulli men, the _stories_ . . .”

            “Did any of them mention me specifically?”

            “You ride with these men!”

            “Leyla, can we not go over this again? I am not _those men_ , and if you don’t believe me yet, then perhaps you never will. What is keeping me from overpowering you at this moment? If I were that kind of man, you would have known by now.”

            “Raheed, I—” Leyla sucked in a deep breath. She understood his frustration, as she shared it. At least he knew his own desires, had explored them. She was using him as a tool to do so, but it was not right. At least he had paid women for that honor. Leyla wasn’t even doing that.

            “Tell me what you want,” Raheed murmured, his voice low and tempting, “and I will do that for you.”

            “You cannot do for me what I want.”

            “Which is?”

            Leyla shook her head. She would not tell him. She would die from embarrassment.

            “Then what is the closest thing?”

            Leyla kissed him again. Raheed understood and kissed her back.

            For now, she would have to settle for this.

 

* * *

 

            “Messenger!”

            The dog took one look at Asan before darting away, a chicken leg clutched between his jaws. Asan ran after him, nearly grabbing his tail before Messenger sprinted away again. By now the chicken leg would be useless, but Asan wanted to punish him, so he took off after the mutt, chasing him down several corridors and through a doorway leading into a courtyard. Messenger leapt down the few steps to a small dirt arena where several soldiers stood watching a match between two men. Messenger streaked through the center of the fight, and everyone stared at him before turning their eyes to Asan, who had frozen at the top of the steps.

            One of the men fighting looked over his shoulder, and Asan realized he wasn’t really a man at all. Just a tall boy—Darim Altaf. The other was Dasaf.

            Asan bowed in apology as Messenger ran through the opposite doorway and vanished around a corner. Asan hoped to maybe do the same, but Dasaf waved him down, so Asan descended the few shallow steps to the small arena and stood at one of the soldier’s sides. Asan still didn’t like soldiers, even Hahnar ones. They all stood with their hands on their swords, and Asan feared saying anything that might give them reason to unsheathe them.

            Dasaf gestured at one of the soldiers, so the man came forward and bowed. Then he took Dasaf’s place in front of Darim, and the fight began again. Asan had watched Mulli boys fight before, but he’d never seen any quite so adept as Darim. He moved with the grace and ability of his uncle.

            Dasaf nudged Asan’s arm, so Asan turned to face him.

            “I could teach you,” Dasaf offered. “Just enough to protect yourself, should you need to.”

            Asan watched Darim and the soldier circle on another, their blades occasionally catching the sun as they sparred. If the Mulli army did come and break through Khamal walls, maybe Asan would need to know some tricks.

            He looked at Dasaf and nodded.

            “After this training session,” Dasaf said. “I can show you.”

            Once Darim had defended himself valiantly against the onslaughts of all the soldiers, Dasaf dismissed them and offered Darim a hearty pat on the back.

            “You would make Haadi proud,” Dasaf told his nephew, and Darim grinned.

            “I could still spar,” the boy said. “I could go all day if I had to.”

            Dasaf looked at Asan, then back at Darim. “Perhaps you can teach Asan here a few tricks?”

            Darim’s smile dimmed in confusion. “Asan is a servant.”

            “Even servants need to know how to cut a Mulli throat should he need to. Why, I’ve taught Leyla to do it.”

            “Really?”

            “Of course. I wouldn’t want her to be harmed, and I can’t protect her everywhere.”

            Darim pursed his lips, then turned back to Asan before nodding. “Alright.”

            Dasaf stepped over to the edge of the ring and picked up a bag that had been dropped there. From within it he pulled two wooden swords. He tossed one to Darim, who caught it effortlessly. He handed the other to Asan with a smile.

            Asan would have much rathered Dasaf teach him. Darim seemed kind enough, but probably far less likely to treat him gently. Asan knew the cruelty of men, but he also knew the cruelty of boys trying to be men. His first beating had come about because of boy soldiers. He hoped that at least Dasaf would stay nearby, in case Darim was feeling brutal.

              Asan gripped the hilt of the sword, feeling more confident with wood than steel. Wood was familiar to him—brooms, mops, rolling pins. He attempted to mirror Darim’s stance, but Darim only laughed and crossed the divide between them, grasping the end of Asan’s sword and using his other hand to move Asan’s grip.

            “If you hold it like that someone is going to hit it right out of your hand,” Darim said. “You have to hold it near the guard, like this.” He pushed Asan’s hand against the cross bar separating the fake blade from the grip. “And you need to keep your grip light yet firm. Like this.” Darim held out his own arm and sword to demonstrate.

            Asan’s fear began to fade, and he began to follow all of Darim’s instructions while Dasaf looked on. Finally they were facing off again, but the first of Darim’s blows knocked the sword right out Asan’s hand. He scrambled to pick it back up, but Darim’s blade glanced lightly off his shoulder.

            “If you drop your sword,” Darim said, “never look away. It’ll give your opponent the chance to slice your head off.”

            Asan nodded. Grasping his fake sword, he stood and faced Darim again.

 

* * *

 

            If one thing could be said for Asan, it was that he could move nowhere quietly.

            “Good evening, Asan” Dasaf greeted, eyes still focused on the book across his lap. When Asan paused, he looked up with a smile. “I didn’t see you at dinner.”

            “Zheera,” Asan replied. It was all that needed said, considering servants were subject to Zheera’s whims, even Dasaf’s personal servants.

            “I suppose you managed to escape her to come here then?”

            Asan nodded.

            Dasaf reached over and patted the cushion he sat upon. “Come. I have something for you.”

            Asan strode down the garden path and then pushed himself up into the alcove, folding his legs underneath him as he sat beside Dasaf. Dasaf picked up a wooden box at his side and handed it over to Asan.

            “Is heavy,” Asan said, eying it curiously.

            “Open it.”

            Asan did so, and his eyes bulged. Dasaf just laughed as Asan pulled out a quill, a bottle of ink, several long sticks of charcoal, and a leather-bound book, its cover bearing the Khamal scorpion insignia, as well as a background of luscious gold swirls. Asan fumbled to open the book and found it filled with blank pages.

            “You said you drew,” Dasaf told him.

            Asan seemed to remember that Dasaf was there, and he clutched the book to his chest, his expression stricken. “Too much.”

            Dasaf shrugged. “I am certain my coffers will survive the blow,” he joked.

            _It is beautiful_ , Asan signed before thumbing through the paper.

            “Perhaps now you have the tools to draw this handsome face, eh?” Dasaf laughed.

            _Thank you_.

            Dasaf nodded. “You are welcome, Asan.”

            Asan picked up the quill. It was made from a hollow reed and carved with floral patterns along its shaft, a fine thing but not terribly expensive. Asan looked at it as if he Dasaf had handed him a sack of gold. It was not like Dasaf to spoil others, but . . . well, the look on Asan’s face made it worth it. Warmth bloomed in his chest at seeing Asan so pleased.

            Asan finally placed the quill back in the box with the other items and turned to Dasaf. “I come to talk.”

            “Really?” Dasaf leaned back against the mountain of pillows that formed a ring around the alcove mat. “Only to talk.”

            Asan hid a smirk, but Dasaf saw the slight tinge of pink along the tips of his ears and the pinnacles of his cheeks.

            Dasaf chuckled. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

            Asan sobered, and he situated himself in a more comfortable position. Dasaf couldn’t help but lament that he’d come to talk, because there were so many _better_ things he could imagine them doing tonight. Dasaf was not immune to the fact that Asan was wearing the caftan Dasaf had bought him. Dasaf couldn’t wait to take it off of him.

            But of course, _talking first_.

            “Raheed.”

            At that, all of Dasaf’s hopes of passion vanished.

            “What about him?” Dasaf asked coolly.

            “You say that you free him,” Asan replied. “To me, when I—” Asan let out a groan of frustration which he did not explain, but he wore the same expression whenever there was a great deal he wanted to say and not enough patience to say it. Asan was slightly more comprehensible than he had been upon arrival, but Dasaf still had to strain to understand some.

            “I said that I would free him when he was well enough to walk.”

            “If I stay in his place.”

            Dasaf nodded. Asan was not going to like this discussion. In fact, he’d probably get less out of it than Dasaf.

            “Raheed is well,” Asan said. “Raheed go free.”

            Dasaf hated how Asan said Raheed’s name, because there was no fumble or pause between sounds. _Raheed_ was the one word Asan could say with utter perfection, and that was why Dasaf avoided saying it. He’d heard that damn name enough of out Asan’s mouth; God damn him if he was going to be saying it too.

            “Asan . . .” Dasaf sighed. “Things are more complicated than I thought.”

            Asan pursed his lips. “You _promise_.”

            “I never did promise. I made a deal. It is different.”

            Now Asan looked angry. “ _Is same thing_! With hands—” Asan made a gesture Dasaf didn’t understand, “—is same thing!”

            “I would let the Mulli go if I could. Do you think I want him here? Unfortunately, the only way anyone else would have him leave Khamal is dead in the back of a wheelbarrow.” When Asan turned away, Dasaf softened his voice, even if it didn’t matter. “I let him go once, Asan. I was shamed for that, scolded, told that I was the worst Sumas in a century. I was called weak, and it’s not just about me. It’s about Khamal’s image. If we are not seen as fierce warriors, what else protects us if not our reputation? We have an army and we have walls but both Hahnar and Mulli forces can destroy those if we’re not careful. I need my people to stand behind me, and letting a Mulli go would not be taken well. I _know_ , because I’ve already done it once.”

            “If you know, why you promise?”

            “I . . .” Dasaf rubbed his forehead. “I thought he was going to _die_ , honestly. He was in such terrible condition.”

            “You are _liar_ then,” Asan snapped.

            “It wouldn’t have been a lie had he died! Besides, what would have happened if I’d told you he was going to be my prisoner until his death? You would have fought me and I would have had to imprison you too and it would have been a huge _mess_. I thought he had brainwashed you into this perfect servant as these Mulli so often do, and I did what I had to get you out of there and away from him.”

            “So Raheed is prisoner forever?”

            “Until I can figure out what to do with him, probably.”

            Asan looked down at the box Dasaf had given him, then pushed it away. He began to slide out of the alcove, and Dasaf’s heart dropped. This was not supposed to be how the night went.

            “Asan!” Dasaf called after him, even though it was pointless. So he pushed himself off the bed as well and trotted after Asan, who had practically crossed the garden before Dasaf reached him. Dasaf took his hand and pulled him around.

            “What do you want from me?” Dasaf pleaded. “I am trying to do what’s best for my people. I cannot prioritize a Mulli’s life over them.”

            “You do not trust me when I say Raheed is _good_.”

            “I believe that,” he lied, “but what about the others, like Malika and my grandmother? They won’t believe you, and they won’t believe me.”

            “You lie to me.”

            “I . . .” Dasaf sighed and shook his head. “I did. And I am sorry. What you meant to me then is not what you mean to me now, and if I could do it again, I would have explained it to you. But you would have tried to rescue him and if you’d been caught . . . Asan, don’t make me choose between you and my people. When Mulli was brought before the Council, they threatened to harm you if he did not give us information, and thank the Gods he did because I could not—I never could . . .” Dasaf bit his lip. He knew how to charm giggling girls and proud chiefs, but this arena was foreign to him. He had never been reduced to this sort of begging.

            When Asan’s expression did not soften, Dasaf attempted another method.

            “Look. The Mullis must move on at some point. If they do not attack us, if their threat goes away and we are left at peace, if all the Mulli says is true . . . I will release him in full health.”

            Asan stared at him warily before saying, “You make promise before. You break.”

            With a resolute expression, Dasaf returned to the alcove and retrieved the book he had given Asan. Then he held it out in front of him. The lamplight flickered across the gold-leaf scorpion until Dasaf placed his hand over it.

            “The Khamal scorpion is a symbol of God. Let Him pay witness as I make you a solemn vow. Should the Mullis move on and take their threat of attack with them, and if the Mulli poses no harm to myself or my people, and if all he has said to us proves to be true, then I, Dasaf, Sumas of Khamal, swear to God and his Greatness that I shall set the Mulli free unharmed. I also promise that if Asan should desire to accompany the Mulli that he may pass unhindered through Khamal gates a free man, unharmed and with my blessing.”

            Asan’s eyes grew at the last part, and it hurt Dasaf to say it. Asan was no prisoner, and if he wanted to go . . . well, Dasaf would let him go.

            “Exalted God, hear these words and hold me to them until I ascend to Heaven. Blessed be.”

            There was a moment of silence as Dasaf bowed his head and pressed a light kiss upon the scorpion. When he opened his eyes, Asan was watching him, wary still but less so than before. He took the book Dasaf offered him, turning it forward so that the dim lamplight caught off the gold ink.

            “I never wanted to be this, Asan,” Dasaf whispered, something he had only said to Leyla once, and it was just after his coronation ceremony, when Haadi’s death still weighed heavily on his mind. He’d been upset by the fact that he hated Haadi not for dying, but for leaving Dasaf such a heavy burden. He had not cried though; Haadi would have been proud.

            Asan’s eyes met his. _Faskii_ though he was, his eyes were black like a Hahnar’s, and they were hard to read now. Dasaf found that Asan was either clear as water or as opaque as mud and rarely in between.

            “Sumas?” Asan finally asked.

            Dasaf nodded. “I was not trained for it. I am not _good_ at it. Haadi could make the difficult decisions. The world was so simple for him—evil and good, night and day. He never wavered in his decisions, and I believe he would have died a thousand times over for his people. Nothing scared him. Nothing _moved_ him beyond revenge. My mother always used to say that he came out of the womb silent and with a frown on his face.”

            “And you?” Asan asked.

            Dasaf had to laugh. “I screamed like a demon torn from Hell.”

            Asan smiled slightly, and Dasaf took hope in it.

            “Leyla says I snore like one too.”

            Asan looked confused a moment, and Dasaf realized that Asan hadn’t a clue to what a snore _was_. It definitely explained how Asan had slept peacefully the whole night by Dasaf’s side.

            This struck Dasaf as amusing, so amusing that he began to laugh. He wondered if God had sent this man to him, and he wondered if he’d had always sensed that. Why Asan, after all? It wasn’t as if there were no handsome men around, and most of his soldiers would not mind mild flirtation, if Dasaf weren’t obvious about it. Why a _faskii_ servant? There really was no reason Dasaf could conjure outside of God’s will. Because if Dasaf had not released Raheed so many years ago, Asan would not be here. It seemed as if it were part of a bigger plan, and Dasaf wished he knew the conclusion of it.

            “Forgive me,” Dasaf chuckled as Asan just stared in bewilderment. He turned and wrapped an arm around Asan’s shoulder, drawing him to his side. “I’m probably going mad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, cuz next chapter, shit gets real. D8>


	22. Scouts

             Dasaf considered himself more experienced in the ways of love, but his experience had only come from his brief and unsatisfactory couplings with Shallaf. When he was younger, it had been a fun romp, seducing an older man into bed and trying to pick at his stitches until he fell apart completely. _I am a_ zhalja _,_ he used to think. _Zhalja_ were slaves beyond the mountain who sang, danced, and entertained their rich owners, but they were also comely men who took their masters to bed, and there were a great many lewd poems he’d read about in books his mother never would have let him see had she lived. _Zhalja_ were highly prized and praised, though perhaps not the position any Sumas should pretend to fill. _Zhalja_ were still slaves, after all, and no free man would elect to be one, especially a noble of Dasaf’s bloodline.

            The fantasy had been alluring, and for a while it had worked. Dasaf was convinced that there was a softer, more intimate side to Shallaf, and he thought that perhaps by suckling his cock he might find that man. But beneath the cold iron of Shallaf’s exterior, there was nothing he wanted to uproot. There was no lamb at Shallaf’s core, only a bitter child with an ugly past that Dasaf still knew very little about. He only learned that Shallaf’s father had been even more cruel than Dasaf’s, and Shallaf bore invisible scars that would never heal, no matter how much Dasaf fucked him.

            So that was Dasaf’s first lesson in love.

            Dasaf had retreated for a while after that, convinced that there was nothing of value to be found in his advisor. Shallaf did not chase him, and he did not change. Shallaf had always seemed to resent Dasaf, for reasons Dasaf didn’t fully understand. Perhaps it was because Shallaf considered lust weakness, and the man strove to cut out all weakness within himself. So he hated Dasaf for shedding light on that weakness he so despised. And when Dasaf could hold out no longer, their coupling became fierce, almost _violent_. They did not face one another, and Shallaf left the moment it ended.

            His second lesson was that obligations trumped love. Upon realizing this, he saw what sat at the core of Haadi and Malika’s marriage—duty. There was no love between them, as much as Malika read her lines and acted her part. _I do love him_ , Malika would say, but he heard the falter in her voice and the uncertainty in her eyes. _Shallaf and I are like them_ , Dasaf had thought. Except that Haadi’s union was done in the eyes of God. Dasaf’s was done in the shadows with much shame, and that made it even worse.

            For years Dasaf had been adrift, looking for something he knew he could not have. He watched his cousins marry and give birth, watched Altaf grow closer to the young man Haadi would have admired. All of his family and friends traveled a path that he had yet to find. _I will always be lost_ , he’d thought. _If I have not found my way by now, then God does not wish me to_.

            Then Asan arrived.

            Asan, with those black eyes and skin the color of sand, whose words were garbled and whose laugh could barely be heard. He was not hardened like a Hahnar warrior, but he had the callused palms of a man who knew work, and his gaze told stories of sorrow. Dasaf had been fascinated by the twisting and swirling of his hands as he spoke, a language all of his own. There was a purity to him, and his loyalty ran as deep as it ran fierce. It was the one thing Shallaf and Asan had in common, and perhaps it was the first sign that Dasaf was hopelessly imprisoned by this mysterious _faskii_ servant who could not speak but said so much.

            Asan raised his arms and pulled his caftan over his head, revealing his wiry form beneath. He did not seem particularly strong, but he looked hardy, like a stubborn weed that weathered intense heat and drought and still managed to bloom. There were some scars along his shoulders, raised and pale against his sun-darkened skin, but Dasaf knew they didn’t come from war like the Mulli’s.

            Dasaf stopped looking at the scars when Asan climbed on top of him, placing a thigh on either side of Dasaf and leaning down to capture his mouth with his. Dasaf had not yet grown accustomed to the leaping in his chest when Asan did so; his whole body nearly jolted at the contact. With a strong grip, Dasaf took Asan’s face in his hands. Asan’s arms wound around his neck, and their previous argument faded away.

            It was wisest to move slowly—this was rather new to both of them. Compared to Shallaf’s iron and ice, Asan was a bite of ripened fruit in the desert. He melted into Dasaf’s arms, his mouth warm and sweet. As Asan’s lips coasted along Dasaf’s ear, Dasaf ran his fingers up Asan’s bare arms, memorizing the texture and the color in the lamplight. Old desires rose in him, the desire to tear the stitches holding Asan together. Yet considering what had happened last time, perhaps it was wise to move at the pace Asan was comfortable with. It wasn’t easy; Dasaf wanted it all _right now_ , especially with Asan wriggling in his lap just so.

            Dasaf slipped a hand across the back of Asan’s neck and pulled him back so that he could kiss his mouth again. A smile touched Dasaf’s lips at Asan’s light moans, completely inaudible to him. It made the fire rage even hotter.

            Dasaf slid to his left so that his back was no longer against the wall, pulling Asan down into a more horizontal position. With a knee on Asan’s hip, he rolled Asan underneath him, which gave him the leverage to truly attack Asan’s flushed skin with his mouth. Asan’s fingers pulled at Dasaf’s caftan, so he removed it quickly, flinging it behind him without a thought to where it might land. Shortly afterward, his hands fumbled with Asan’s trousers, as Asan was most handsome naked. Asan was in such a state to help him, then assisted Dasaf in removing his own.

            Even nude, they kissed for a long time. Dasaf had sucked and fucked but Shallaf so rarely allowed kisses, and they were often devoid of any affection. Asan nearly dripped with affection, laying worship across Dasaf’s face and shoulders with soft yet hungry lips. Their effect was so potent that it nearly closed Dasaf’s throat to think about it. _This_ was something he thought he’d never had, that many never would have. He would enjoy it as long as he could manage.

            By the time Dasaf pulled back, Asan’s face was blotched red and his lips swollen. Yet there was utter bliss in his eyes, and all the usual timidity in his expression had vanished, replaced with a happy smile. His hair laid damp across his forehead, so Dasaf pushed it away with his hand. Underneath him, Asan’s chest heaved with heavy breath.

            “Do all _faskiis_ grow crimson like you?” Dasaf jested.

            At this, Asan flushed redder, but he laughed that odd hiccupping laugh of his, barely making a sound. Upon hearing it, Dasaf’s chest clenched once more.

            Asan lifted a hand to his jaw. “Beard scratches.”

            Dasaf chuckled, sitting up across Asan’s thighs. “I apologize for it. It likes you as much as I do.”

            The tips of Asan’s fingers rested against Dasaf’s knees. Then, hesitantly, they crept along Dasaf’s thighs, too slowly for Dasaf’s tastes. He grabbed Asan’s hands and lifted them to his mouth to kiss. Then he pushed them down to the cushion beneath them, locking them just above Asan’s shoulders. Hand still on Asan’s wrists, Dasaf raised himself to all fours and kissed Asan’s lips.

            “What is it you would like?” he asked, pulling away slightly.

            Asan looked confused. “Like?”

            “I can do many things.” Dasaf sounded like his teenage self, attempting to appear more confident in his skills than he was. “I can do what I’ve tried before. I can use my hands. Or I could put you inside of me.”

            Asan gaped at him, overwhelmed by the options. Dasaf waited, because he knew how to do all of these things with some proficiency. Shallaf was too proud to let Dasaf mount him, so Dasaf had never attempted to enter another. He wondered what Asan would prefer, if he preferred it any way at all.

            “I . . .” Asan was speechless.

            “Or we can kiss all night. But . . .” Dasaf reached down to Asan’s length and stroked him lazily, “I would think this might distract you.”

            Asan’s teeth dug into his lower lip, eyes flickering shut. Dasaf kissed both corners of his mouth before suddenly moving away, reaching for some of the alcove’s hidden compartments. Asan sat up to watch him curiously.

            When Dasaf returned to him, he carried a bottle of sweet-smelling oil he had smuggled from Leyla. If she’d known what its true purpose would become, she would have never given him another remedy. Upon seeing Asan’s confusion, Dasaf lifted the decanter’s lid and allowed Asan to sit up and sniff.

            “Frankincense,” Asan muttered.

            “Not as strong as most perfumes. If my family caught a scent of it wafting from my groin, I dare say they might kick me out of the alcazar.”

            Asan snorted, then started laughing.

            “It’s more oil than perfume.” Dasaf dribbled some onto his hand. “I’ve found several good uses for it.”

            Asan lifted a hand and dipped his fingers into the puddle in Dasaf’s palm. Once the oil had been smeared, he tentatively reached for Dasaf’s length. Dasaf rose to his knees and slid his own hand behind him as Asan’s grip tightened.

            It was hard not to think of Shallaf when doing this, especially when Dasaf closed his eyes. To ward off the memory of those cursory and rushed fingers, Dasaf wrapped his free arm around Asan’s shoulders and dug his face into Asan’s hair, which was enough to break the memory. He relaxed, and his finger moved more easily inside of himself. Perhaps he would enjoy this more with Asan. He _wanted to_. He’d longed for a connection like this, and maybe now he’d get it.

            Suddenly Asan’s hand found Dasaf’s, and Asan jolted in shock. But Dasaf’s arm was still around his shoulders, so when Asan tipped his head back to look at him, Dasaf just smiled.

            “Have you ever been inside another?” Dasaf asked.

            Asan shook his head, wide-eyed. Dasaf smiled, pulled his hand away, and began to sink upon Asan’s length. Asan shouted in surprise, but he did not move away, and when Dasaf’s body swallowed him, Asan choked in pleasure and dug his face deep into Dasaf’s chest, his fingers pressing tightly into Dasaf’s flesh.

            It was everything Dasaf wanted to see.

            It had been a while since Dasaf had done this, so things did not move as quickly as he might have liked. But once he was fully seated on Asan’s lap, he felt pride at his accomplishment. He did recall this feeling good, even with Shallaf. With Asan it was heaven. After this, Dasaf would loathe to pull apart. It was a joining of passion and adoration, and it was what Dasaf had been searching for ever since he’d realized he lusted for men instead of women.

            He dipped his head and grabbed Asan’s lips with his own so forcefully that Asan fell over. Dasaf pushed his hips forward with the movement, and Asan cried out. Dasaf would have loved to hear that cry again, but they _were_ in the garden, close to where his family slept. So he put his mouth on Asan’s in hopes of quieting him as he continued to sway back and forth, pushing Asan away from him before filling himself again, a stretch about as sweet as Asan’s mouth.

            This was how it was supposed to feel. _This_ was what those lewd forbidden poems described.

            Asan did not last long, but neither did Dasaf. When they reached completion, Dasaf collapsed on top of Asan, panting heavily but unwilling to rise. Even as Asan softened within him, Dasaf wanted to keep him there, a reminder that not all couplings had to end in a dense fog of disappointment. A madness inside of him told him to take Asan and run. They could go beyond the mountain to Bhajar, a city by the bay, protected by an ocean on one side and the mountains on another. It was a place Haadi and Dasaf’s parents had visited once, and it was a place large enough to swallow two travelers without a ripple. In that golden city, Mullis would be a distant annoyance, some other man’s problem. Dasaf would never have to kill another, and he could kiss Asan in the street if he so liked—no one would care.

            _But they would_ , another voice said. _Asan will always be_ faskii, _and_ faskiis _are mostly slaves in Bhajar._

            There was no place for Asan and Dasaf. Besides, it was daft to even consider running. He would be branded a coward, a shame to his family and his ancestors. He would be leaving his nephew to be hunted by wolves.

            Dasaf sat up and used his sash to clean them both. Asan offered to fetch water, but Dasaf refused. Instead, he bent an arm around Asan’s neck and held him close, trying to memorize the subtleties of Asan’s scent. Asan slid both his arms and legs around Dasaf’s body and rested his cheek against the swell of Dasaf’s chest. They spoke no more of Mulli prisoners, nor what waited in the future. For now, silence was something they could both agree upon.

 

* * *

 

            Asan woke early, almost as early as the sun. Some time during the night he had dragged a blanket over himself and Dasaf, as desert nights were as cold as the days were hot. He was still chilled, but Dasaf emitted the warmth of a cozy fire, so Asan held him close.

            Asan lifted his head from Dasaf’s chest to yawn, then twisted to look at the designs frolicking upon the alcove wall. Some featured leaping antelope, others long caravans of burdened camels walking along waves of sand. Branches twined themselves around one another to form complex patterns, and above it all rose carvings of temples and Khamal itself.

            As Asan admired the etchings, he spotted a gap between one panel and the wall. Moving slowly so as not to disturb Dasaf, he slipped out from underneath Dasaf’s heavy arm and crawled to the panel, digging his fingers along the jutting edge before realizing it was not a wall at all, but a hidden door. It did not move willingly, and he knew that it might produce a sound if he forced it any wider. So he let it be, even though he was determined to return later and see what the panel might be hiding.

            By this hour the servants were heading to work, and Asan knew he should be joining them. He shivered as he pulled on his trousers and caftan, wondering who might miss him if he were late. Looking over his shoulder, he admired the slopes of Dasaf’s powerful form, even if most of it was mired in a tangle of sheets. He couldn’t resist the urge to slither over there to plant a few kisses along his shoulder and bicep. It would take Asan a century to find an end to the wondrous parts of Dasaf’s body.

            Dasaf’s eyes crept open, and his smile was so filled with affection that Asan didn’t believe himself worthy of it. He leaned up and lightly kissed Dasaf’s lips.

            Dasaf muttered something, beckoning Asan to him. Asan assumed he wanted Asan to return to bed. But if Asan stayed, he would never leave.

            _I have to go_ , Asan told Dasaf.

            Dasaf might have protested, but he dipped back into slumber, his arm flopping down to his side. Asan smiled crookedly and planted one last kiss upon Dasaf’s forehead before sneaking out of the garden, hoping he’d be given some mindless chore so that he could replay last night over and over in his head all day.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dasaf hated patrols, but he did them because they were necessary. For the most part, they were completely uneventful, and while Dasaf disliked the boredom, he knew it was better than the alternative. The only time things turned exciting was when something went terribly wrong. All of this was not helped by the fact Dasaf was still sore from last night, making a saddle the least comfortable seat to occupy.

            “How’s your wife, by the way?” Dasaf asked Tarim casually, twisting in his saddle.

            “Every day I think she might have one more child than we thought the day before.”

            Dasaf grinned. “Ah, but quintuplets would be God’s blessing.”

            “If she has five children, I’ll sell _myself_ to slavery.”

            A few of the men around them chuckled as Dasaf laughed. The only one whose face remained sober was Shallaf’s. He was looking out across the flat desert, watching. Dasaf had no idea how he kept such vigilance, how he found the energy.

            “By the way, Sumas, I have never had the chance to formally congratulate you on your nephew’s betrothal,” Tarim said.

            “No need to congratulate me. It’s _his_ future wife.”

            “What’s she look like?” asked Atif, running his fingers through his horse’s mane. “I hope she’s not an ogre.”

            “She’s pretty enough,” Dasaf answered. “At least that’s what I’ve been told. You know how the Matij veil their women.”

            “Because they’re so hideous, I imagine,” Tarim joked. “Poor things can’t help it, considering Jakil blood has to be in at least half of them. How many wives did Multeef have? Thirty?”

            Atif took a sip of his water. “Ten, I think.”

            “I wouldn’t know what to do with more than one wife. The one I have nags me enough as it is.”

            Dasaf chuckled as he turned to Shallaf, who was now spinning his horse around to face the red cliff looming above them. Nudging his horse closer, Dasaf leaned over and asked, “Is there something that you see?”

            “A hawk.” Shallaf pointed to a bird that circled overhead.

            “There are plenty of them around.”

            “It’s bigger than most.”

            Dasaf wanted to tell him he was being paranoid, but he knew how Shallaf would take that. Besides, Shallaf had fought more battles than Dasaf ever had. Sometimes Dasaf wondered if Haadi would still be alive had Shallaf gone with him on that visit to the Matij.

            Without waiting for Dasaf’s opinion, Shallaf kicked his horse into a canter along the edge of the cliff, vanishing beyond a jutting rock.

            “What’s he doing?” asked Omad curiously.

            “Chasing shadows,” Tarim muttered. “He wants to kill something.”

            “Should we follow him?”

            “I think we should—”

            Dasaf was cut off by a shout. He didn’t even glance at the others before digging his heels into his dark bay’s flanks. The gelding burst into a gallop, and Dasaf, along with his men, headed toward the direction where Shallaf had gone.

            What they found was a small group of men, at least fifteen of them. Shallaf’s horse had collapsed in a pool of blood, its throat cut. Shallaf stood just behind it, seconds away from being overcome. Lucky for Shallaf that Tarim was so quick with his bow; the first man went down with an arrow in the head.

            Dasaf shoved his hands behind his belt and grasped the knives he kept there. With a few flicks of his wrist, he put one through the eye of a man and another in someone’s side. When his horse took him close enough, he saw that these men were Mulli. They could have been belligerent _faskiis_ if not for the Mulli insignia on their armor, which had been covered in mud to hide them amongst the cliffs. Dasaf didn’t have time to wonder why they might have come in such small numbers. In seconds, he was off his horse and swinging his sword at the nearest attacker.

            A burly Mulli thrust a sword at him, but Dasaf blocked it. He used the brief moment of unbalance to slam his elbow into the man’s throat. When the soldier fumbled, Dasaf put his blade in whatever flesh he could reach, which happened to be sideways through the man’s skull. The blood made an audible _thhhp_ before splashing across the dirt, the soldier’s body quickly following. Dasaf had lodged the blade deeper than he’d planned, because he had to put his foot against the man’s shoulder in order to yank it out. That nearly took off the soldier’s head.

            Dasaf removed his sword just in time, because someone charged him from behind. When Dasaf ducked, the Mulli danced to the right to keep himself from pitching forward. This man was a bit more skilled with his weapon, so it took a few bone-jarring blows before Dasaf was able to knock the sword out of the Mulli’s hand. Deciding it might be beneficial to take one alive, Dasaf merely punched the man square in the face. Broken noses would heal, but they were painful enough to keep the man out of comission until everyone was disposed of.

            Dasaf put his scimitar through the leg of his next attacker, then shoved his blade into the man’s stomach. The last one that came kept Dasaf engaged longer than the rest, but Dasaf felled him too by cutting deep into his elbow before using the man’s own sword to cut his throat.

            Then silence.

            Dasaf whipped around, looking for more. But there were only bodies now, the ground stained crimson with their blood. Shallaf had lost his turban and part of his robe, but outside of a cut on his arm, he looked unharmed. Omad, Atif,  and Ghali, Najeeb, and Qan were alive as well, though Atif was clutching a hand drenched in blood over his thigh. Dasaf quickly looked over the fallen, searching frantically for what he dreaded. Indeed, there was one man who did not wear Mulli armor, and his missing shemagh made him easily identifiable.

             Tarim’s hand was clenched over his gaping abdomen, a wound so ugly that there was not just blood but the severed end of an intestine and a gleaming mass of internal flesh leaking over the edges of his fingers. By some cruel miracle, his eyes still fluttered with life.

            Dasaf bent at his side, and Tarim opened his lips to speak. His teeth were coated in a film of blood. Dasaf removed his shemagh to wipe the red spittle that dribbled down the side of his mouth. Tarim inhaled wetly, his jaw shaking as he struggled to resist death’s outstretched hand.

            “Let me go to God,” Tarim whispered.

            Dasaf nodded, swallowing the thickness in his throat. “I will see you in Heaven one day, my brother.”

            A pained smiled crossed Tarim’s face before he closed his eyes. Dasaf set his sword aside and placed both hands on either side of Tarim’s head. With a quick twist and _snap_ , the deed was done, and all was silent.

            Dasaf sat there on his knees for a long time before he picked up his sword and rose. When he turned, Shallaf was just behind him, his face as smooth as the Scorpion Stone.

            “There is one still alive,” Shallaf said. For once, Dasaf was glad that Shallaf was made of iron and ice. He needed that right now.

            Dasaf strode over to the Mulli soldier whose nose he had broken. The man had rolled over, his fingers stretching for the sword he had dropped. By the time Dasaf reached him, he hadn’t time to retract his hand before Dasaf dug his boot into the Mulli’s knuckles. He let out a yowl of pain.

            “Tell me why you have come, and I may consider sparing your miserable life,” Dasaf snarled.

             The Mulli only spat at him. Dasaf kicked him across the jaw so hard that the man lost consciousness for a few seconds. When he came to, Dasaf squatted over his body and dug his fists into the man’s robes, pulling him up close enough so that he could smell the stale breath lingering on the Mulli’s lips.

            “I will ask you one more time,” Dasaf hissed, “before I pluck every single tooth from your mouth and push them into your eye sockets until your skull rattles.”

            “You won’t let me live,” the Mulli said. He had only a spattering of hair along his jaw—a foot soldier, nothing more. It made Dasaf only angrier that Mulli sent fresh boys out to slaughter his people, as if Khamal were not worthy of grown men.

            “I will. I need a man to deliver a message for me.”

            The man was silent, recalcitrant. Dasaf lifted his hand over his shoulder, and someone handed him one of his daggers, dripping with blood from the body from which it had been removed. When he dug the blade just inside the gum of the man’s canine tooth, he screamed, “Alright, please!”

            Dasaf pulled the dagger back, and the man sobbed, his mouth filled with blood.

            “We are scouts,” the man cried. “They told us to take a Hahnar captive so that we could get information.”

            “A Hahnar? What kind of Hahnar? A Khamal Hahnar?”

            The man nodded pathetically.

            “I thought the Mullis were going to invade the Hahnars beyond the mountain.”

            “I don’t know. Please, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve been told.”

            “Are you sure?” Dasaf raised his dagger again.

            “I think—I think Khamal is a target, yes! I don’t _know_. I’m just a foot soldier, they don’t tell me anything!”

            Dasaf believed him, because the man (or perhaps he was still a boy) did not seem terribly bright. He threw him down, then kicked him in the side for good measure. The man curled up into a ball, sobbing.

            “What do you want me to do with him?” Shallaf asked, his nose wrinkled as if he were looking at camel manure underneath his shoe.

            “Send him back to wherever he came,” Dasaf ordered. He strode over to a dead body, a man whose head dangled from his neck on a thin piece of flesh. After Dasaf cut it clean off, he wrapped it in the man’s shemagh and tore off a strip of the man’s robes so that he could construct a sling. Then he returned to the crying Mulli and forced him to his feet. After tying the man’s hands behind his back, Dasaf put the sling around the man’s neck like a macabre necklace, the bloody head bouncing against his chest with a dull _thud_. 

            “I want you to return to those Mullis who sent you,” Dasaf hissed in the Mulli’s ear. “And I want you to give them this head as a present from Khamal. Tell them that the Sumas sends his regards.” He pulled back, taking the man’s jaw in his hand. “Do you understand me, _dog_?”

            The man nodded.

            “Give the man a drink before he heads off on his way.”

            “The Mulli camp is a week’s walk away,” Omad said. “He’ll die before he gets there.”

            “Then we’ll be sending _two_ messages, won’t we? Now get the man _a drink_.”

            After Dasaf’s men dribbled some water into the man’s bloody mouth, he was shoved forward, toward the huge expanse of empty desert. He took off at a run, as if expecting them to chase him down. Instead they all watched him stumble away, panting through the blood blocking his nose. It was a pathetic sight, and it filled Dasaf with rage.

            He whipped around and headed back to his horse, which shied away when he grabbed for him. Dasaf’s hands slipped as he grappled for the reins, and he realized why—they were coated in blood.

           

* * *

 

            Leyla had stopped pretending she didn’t like Raheed, which was refreshing. Raheed liked women who liked him, and unlike Malli, he knew that Leyla was sincere. He wasn’t paying her anything to spend time with him, so he knew there must be some genuine reason she sought his company.

            Most of Raheed’s interactions with women had led to fucking, so often times it was hard to keep his imagination from going there. He did all he could to hide it from her, as she was not responsible for the perversions of his own mind. But God, she was beautiful, and not just in appearance. When she laughed, she’d raise a hand to cover her mouth, as if to quiet it, and he thought that was gorgeous too. She asked that he teach her all the Aillic swearwords, and when she repeated them, he nearly fell in love with her.

            _There are whores and there are wives_ , someone had once told him, though he could not recall who. If Raheed could get married, he would have married a woman like this one. If Leyla did marry, he hoped it would be to someone wonderful, someone like her.

            _You’re mad_ , Raheed thought to himself. _You need to stop thinking about women and start thinking about escape_. But where would he even go, and would it be any better than here? The boredom was the worst, but so far he hadn’t been beaten and they fed and watered him with some regularity. He had no skills beyond soldiering, so what would he even _do_ once he escaped? Become a scribe, maybe. But where would he go? To the Hahnars beyond the mountain, who enslaved most _faskii_ s and would surely kill anyone with the mark of the _bhanak_? Beyond the sea to places he hadn’t even read about?

            No wonder he thought so much about Leyla. It was the only thinking that made him happy.

             Today Leyla had removed her headdress, revealing the thin coat of fuzz that covered her scalp. For a while he had wished she had more hair, but now he decided he liked it. It drew more attention to her features, which were distinctly Hahnar yet universally alluring.

            “I brought you books,” Leyla said, pulling her shawl away from several bound novels she carried in her arms.

            “ _Books_?” Raheed stared greedily at them. He did not love reading as much as Asan, but compared to the long stretches of _nothing_ that made up his days and nights, they were a God send. He took them from Leyla and opened to the first page.

            “This is in Hahnar,” Raheed said with some disappointment.

            “The one on the bottom is in Aillic. I’m sorry, it was all I could find.”

            “I know some Hahnar, and it’s the same alphabet,” Raheed replied. He looked up at her. “Thank you. This is very kind of you.”

            Leyla nodded, uncomfortable with his gratitude. “It was nothing. I have plenty. There are pictures in some. They may help you understand.”

            Raheed looked through the next one. “What are they about?”

            “Oh, mostly just fairy tales and legends. They’re easy reading . . . if you know Hahnar.”

            He slid the books off his lap and stood, brushing the dirt from his lap. “Thank you again. This is very generous.”

            She nodded, biting her lip. Raheed wanted to grab and kiss her, but as a prisoner he didn’t have that privilege. It was best not to think of his rather vivid dream last night, a memory of a night with Malli. It had felt so real—the scents, the sounds, the distant pounding of the ocean and the cry of seagulls outside. Malli had come to him dripping in silks and gold jewelry, her thick black hair scented with jasmine. Yet as he undressed her, her skin turned a dark umber and her hair fell away. Instead of his hands being filled with full breasts and fleshy hips, her body flattened and turned more angular, which he supposed was just conjecture—he didn’t really know what Leyla looked like underneath her heavy caftans. Being as it was a dream, he hadn’t been worried enough to stop. In fact, it gave him more reason to continue, and the memory of those sighs in his ear made it very hard to face Leyla now with neutrality.

            “How is Asan?” Raheed asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Stuck in this room day and night gave him very little to discuss, outside of the scorpion that still shared his bedchamber.

            “You just saw him yesterday. I’d imagine he’s the same.”

            “Right.”

            A small smile broke across Leyla’s lips. “I don’t know if anyone told you, but my nephew has been betrothed to a Matij girl.”

            “I don’t know for whom I should offer my condolences.”

            Leyla laughed. “I’m sure neither of them was particularly happy about the arrangement, but Matij forces are important when your Mulli army stands so close by.”

            “ _My_ Mulli army? It’s not mine, not anymore than that Matij girl is _your_ future wife.”

            “You don’t think they’ll attack, truly?” Leyla’s voice was tentative, as if she were only asking to allay her own fears.

            “Oh, they’ll do it eventually, because the Mulli beast must keep itself fed. But for now, there’s no real reason to set focus on Khamal. It’s close to the pass, but Hahnar troops have cut the Mullis down from that particular route, so now they’ve set their sights on going around the mountain, which is the opposite way of Khamal. Khamal has no vast riches or obscene military power, so I imagine the Mullis will only come once the Hahnars are disposed of. The Mullis still consider the Khamal people and the Matij to be Hahnars, and they think that taking over either might invoke Hahnar wrath.”

            “Hahnars don’t really care about Khamal itself, but they still see us as a province, and they’d consider it a threat if the Mullis took the city.”

            “Yes, and Mullis don’t want to take a relatively insignificant city just to win themselves the honor of being swarmed by Hahnar troops. If they’re going to fight Hahnars, they want a bigger prize.”

            “Bhajar.”

            “Mainly, yes.”

            “Why haven’t they tried by sea? Bhajar is on the coast, as is Ayllamal.”

            “The sea by the Bhajar coast is littered with islands full of cutthroats and pirates loyal to the Hahnar king. I’m sure naval battles happen, but I don’t think they’ve been entirely successful.”

            “Is this what you told the Council women?”

            “Yes. I also assured them that Mullis think that Khamal is much larger and fiercer than it actually is. You can thank your patrols for killing all the Mullis who might have returned to camp and reported about the misconception.”

            “You didn’t.”

            “I didn’t see much of Khamal the first time. Besides, I was one of the sole survivors of a battle during which I’d lost all of my friends, so all I wanted to do at that point was get home and forget about Hahnars and their wretched mountains.” Perhaps Raheed could have told her about the general, but he’d take that secret to his grave. If it got around to Dasaf that he had freed the most powerful Mulli commander because of Raheed’s duplicity, Raheed’s head would be on a spike by tomorrow morning.

            Leyla was silent a moment before asking, “You lost all your friends?”

            “Yes.”

            “That is . . . unfortunate.”

            Raheed shrugged. “It’s war. I was foolish in thinking that one could form attachments without heartbreak. I didn’t make the mistake again. After that, the only ones I confided in was whores.”

            “And Asan.”

            Raheed frowned. “It’s different with Asan. He’s my servant, not a man who follows me to battle.”

            “But he’s here.”

            “Because he could not stay in Ayllamal. Trust me that if Elder Hassad still lived, Asan would be with him at the moment, and he’d be better off. He was almost stoned to death because of my mistakes.”

            “Fasa told me all about that.” Leyla reached out and took his hand, a gesture he wasn’t expecting. “You saved her life.”

            “And it nearly cost Asan his life.”

            “So you saved _both_ their lives.”

            “Only because of some Hahnars with impeccable timing.” Raheed sighed. “Honestly, Leyla, I was prepared to join them when they rode through the camp. The Mullis had sentenced my innocent servant to death because I had elected to save another innocent woman’s life. No one stood against them, not even those I considered comrades. Any man could have been Asan’s murderer if they’d all picked up a stone. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life, nor have I _hated_ anyone so much in my life . . .”

            “You were honorable.” Her hand squeezed his, and he felt her press herself against his arm. Sometimes whores would joke that he was honorable— _“It’s nice that you don’t touch my head when I suck you, Captain, aha!_ ”—but no one had ever truly meant it. It hurt his heart to hear it, because it wasn’t true. He’d killed a thousand woman’s sons and husbands, and for the sake of what? An empire that tore him from his poor mother when they raided her village?  
            Raheed turned to her, meeting her sincere gaze. She reached up and cupped his jaw, smiling kindly. She might as well put her fist through his chest in how it affected him. Unable to stop himself, Raheed grabbed her head with both hands and kissed her, drawing from her a sharp gasp. It took her a brief moment, but then she dug her fingers into the folds of his ratty tunic and kissed him back. When she pulled away, his arms stayed around her. They shared a private, intimate look.

            Suddenly the door crashed open, bouncing off the wall like a clap of thunder. In the threshold stood Leyla’s enraged brother-in-law. His eyes darted between the two of them as they leapt apart, and a dark fire roared to life within them.

            It was a good thing Raheed didn’t fear death, because he felt like he’d be facing it today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dasaf: brutally murdering Mullis by day, bottoming by night.


	23. Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's [soundtrack](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cN2WfrAR1Gs).

            When news of his mother’s demise had reached Dasaf at the age of twelve, he’d spent the entire day in his room alternating between sobbing and throwing things against walls. Very little pushed through the cloud of rage, helplessness, and despair until Haadi slammed into his room, took Dasaf’s robes in two fists, and held Dasaf against a wall.

            “You will not cry,” Haadi had snarled as tears gathered in Dasaf’s eyes. “A _Darim_ does not cry!”

            “ _You_ are Darim,” Dasaf had snapped back, and Haadi had hit him. It had been stupid of Dasaf to defy his brother, because he’d spent years being terrified of him.

            “We are both Darim. We both carry our father’s blood, and our father would spit on you now to see you sobbing like a child over him.”

            “I’m not crying over _him_. I hated him.” Perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. A part of Dasaf had wanted his father’s love and might have worked to receive it, but it was news of his mother that had driven him to anguish. His wonderful mother, whose laughter filled cold rooms, whose warm arms had held him close and protected him, whose honeyed voice told the best stories, whose bravery in the face of his father’s wrath had given Dasaf courage. “I cry for Mother.”

            “I loved her, yet do you see me bawling like a little girl?”

            “I hate you too,” Dasaf had growled, spitting at Haadi’s feet. “I spit on _you_.”

            Haadi hit him again, but Dasaf hadn’t regretted it. It was one of the only times he’d ever stood up to Haadi, and he was proud of it. When Haadi died, he shed no tears, so he was able to appreciate the justice in that.

            Dasaf had not been so angry since then. Now that beast came roaring back in him, and it was not kind. It was the anger that stood up to a man of Haadi’s stature, so no Mulli had a chance in the face of it. Rabida had called Haadi the Scorpion of Khamal, so Dasaf decided that made Mullis rats, nuisances carrying plague and misery with them as they scuttled along dark alleys and hid themselves in deep holes.

            He hated them.

            He’d forgotten how much he’d hated them. But today he remembered. He remembered the mother they’d stolen from him, a woman full of nothing but light and love. He’d seen her in Tarim just before he took the young man’s life. When the despair faded, the wrath of the Hahnars’ scorpion took its place, the sort that made its way into Hahnar legend.

               His rage took him to stable yard, to the small forgotten hut beyond the horse stalls and camel paddocks. He might have settled on bloodying the Mulli up, but when he found those hands on his sister, Dasaf nearly murdered him on the spot. Mullis had ravished his mother before they gave her the pleasure of death, so he did not see Asan’s soldier but instead a faceless Mulli soldier putting his hands on a woman he loved.

            Dasaf drew his sword and would have beheaded the man in one swing if Leyla hadn’t leapt in front of him.

            “Dasaf! What are you—”

            He shoved her aside. “Get out of my way.”

            “ _Dasaf!_ ” Leyla latched onto him like a lamprey, grasping the hilt of his sword on top of his hand. “Stop it! What are you doing!”

            “What I should have done months ago.”

            “Are you _mad_? What is . . .” She paused, then pulled her hand away, looking down at the flaking dry blood her grip had removed from his hand. “Dasaf . . .?”

            “You. Outside, now,” Dasaf snarled at the Mulli.

            The Mulli did not argue, but Dasaf could resist shoving him as he passed, sending the Mulli sprawling across the dirt.

            “Out!” Dasaf shouted, and the Mulli pulled himself to his feet.

            Once outside, Shallaf and Omad apprehended the Mulli, blindfolding him and tying a coarse rope around his wrists. Dasaf attempted to join them, but Leyla stood in front of the door.

            “Nothing happened,” she exclaimed, voice shaky. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “ _You_.” Dasaf jabbed a finger in her face. “I will talk to _you_ later. If you keep your mouth shut, I may not tell Rabida and Malika about all the time you’ve been spending _healing_ this Mulli dog of yours.”

            “What is wrong? Why are you covered in blood? Dasaf—”

            He pushed past her and back into the sunlight. The Mulli was being dragged to the horse arena, trailed by the rest of Dasaf’s guard. Some stable boys and passing servants stopped to stare, but Dasaf didn’t mind. Let them look. Maybe they’d gossip about how Dasaf had become Haadi for a day. Would they respect him then? Would they call him the Scorpion as they had his brother and his father before him? Would Rabida finally stop calling him the cowardly result of an overbearing mother?

            “Ghali,” Dasaf murmured, taking the man’s arm and drawing him close. “Take my sister and get her someplace safe. By any means necessary.”

            Ghali nodded.  

            Once inside of the arena, the men removed the Mulli’s blindfold and cut the ropes around his wrists, not bothering to be gentle. Blood dribbled down the Mulli’s forearms as he scrambled to a stand. He might have liked to escape, but he was surrounded by a circle of Dasaf’s best and most trusted men, one of whom was Shallaf, a man with enough skill and  ruthlessness to impress Jakil Ultar. Dasaf had seen it before.

            Dasaf’s men parted as Dasaf entered the ring they’d made. Dasaf had worn two swords today, so he unsheathed one and tossed it at the Mulli’s feet.

            “Can you fight, Mulli?” Dasaf asked.

            The Mulli looked down at the sword, gulping. He nodded.

            “Pick it up.”

            The Mulli did so, and Dasaf could tell by the way he held it that he was a man very comfortable with one. Dasaf would have preferred to murder _him_ out in the desert instead of green boys, boys not even worthy of a Hahnar’s blade. Dasaf wondered if they were really sent to apprehend a Khamal Hahnar or if they were sent to be sacrificed. It made a rather gruesome threat, far more threatening than sending a bird with a message. The Mullis were testing them, he was sure of it. He hoped that a bloody head answered whatever question they had regarding Khamal’s ferocity.

            “It’s been a while since you’ve swung a blade, hasn’t it?” Dasaf asked.

            “I’d like to know why you want me to swing it,” the Mulli replied. “Have I done something wrong?”

            “You lied, that’s what you’ve done wrong. You told the Council and myself. You swore upon the life and livelihood of your servant, a man you claim to value above your own life, and yet you _lied_.”

            “About what?”

            “The Mullis are coming for us at Khamal. You said they were not.”

            “I did not lie. I told you what I knew. Plans might have changed, and I told you that it wasn’t certain—”

            “You said Khamal was of no strategical importance, so you tell me why there are hungry Mulli scouts creeping along our border, hmm?”

            “I don’t know! It’s been months. Perhaps the Hahnar strategy has changed and the Mulli army thinks it’s more productive to fight smaller targets. I told you the truth as I knew it when I left, and that truth is what I swore upon Asan’s life.”

            Dasaf strode closer, but the Mulli raised his sword, stopping him. Dasaf frowned.

            “I imagine you’ve gone a long time without putting your cock in a whore. Is that what you see in my sister? A receptacle for that vile snake between your legs?”

            “Why not ask Leyla what I—”

            The Mulli had been expecting a strike of a sword, not a strike of a fist. Dasaf moved quickly enough to punch the man hard across the jaw, nearly dropping him to his knees. One of his rings carved a bloody path along the Mulli’s cheek, but he did not cry out in pain. He merely stumbled away and clutched his face in his hand.

            “A dog is a dog,” Dasaf spat. “Dogs are sly and they are clever, but they have no honor. I imagine you’ve filled her head with all kind of lies and promises, but I know what you want from her, and I know that it is only a matter of time before you take it. I will make you a eunuch before I let you so much as _look_ at my sister again, do you understand me, _dog_?”

            The Mulli did not reply.

            “Today we will fight,” Dasaf said. “And today, Mulli, you will _lose_.”

 

* * *

 

            Asan peered down into the darkness that stretched into infinity. Lifting his lamp did little except illuminate a few more steps down into the mouth of black pit.

            He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him was the Sumas’s garden, redolent and blooming.  That morning during a lull in work, Asan had returned to the alcove, searching for that panel he had spotted loose while Dasaf slept. He had assumed it was some secret drawer—there were many built into the alcove. But this baffled him, as it wasn’t a drawer or compartment at all. It was a hallway, leading down into the unknown.

            He had to know what laid beyond.

            Unfolding his legs, Asan slipped onto the first stone step, ducking his head to avoid striking it on the low ceiling. It was much like climbing into a box—a cold, dark box that could possibly lead him into the depths of hell. But if he could live through a stoning at the command of Lieutenant General Yussam, he could survive the exploration of a dark hallway. The alcazar had many. Perhaps this was just an alternative path to the baths. 

            After a few steps, the ceiling climbed higher, allowing Asan to walk straight. He had descended perhaps forty steps by the time he began to wonder if there was even an end at all. When he turned, there was just a pinprick of light where the sun slipped through the opening of the panel door. If there were any intersections, Asan would return to the surface before he got lost. But being as there was only one staircase to follow, he continued downward.

            He finally did reach a doorway, and when he pushed through it he gasped at what he encountered. He had just stepped into a vast crypt with ceilings so high the light of his lamp could not reach them. Columns as wide as battle towers were built every twenty strides, but not with any elegance. This was a room meant to house the dead, not to impress the living. Yet when Asan looked for tombs, he found nothing but gaping holes in cold, wet rock

            So Asan continued.

            At the end of the crypt was another doorway leading into a narrow corridor. As it continued, the brick walls changed back into stone, and rivulets of water began to trickle along the cracks and onto Asan’s head as he passed. He must be deep within the mountain now, perhaps near the source of the hot springs. He checked his lamp to make sure it had enough oil, because he had no desire to make his way through the pitch darkness.

            Asan must have walked for an hour. The hallway deteriorated as he went, crumbling in places, eroded away by the occasional stream of water he had to step over to continue. When he did spot light, he ran for it. It couldn’t possibly be taking him to a bath—no bath was this far out. He’d been descending almost the whole way, so his destination was probably lower than most of Khamal.          

            The light cut through a pile of boulders and rocks that had fallen in front of an ancient door. None were so large that Asan could not budge them, so he spent more time carefully picking through and setting them aside until he was able to crawl through the gap on his hands and knees.

            Outside, he squinted in the sunlight. He was standing at the bottom of a ravine, crimson rocks towering over him like giants on either side. Some foliage grew on their peaks, but where Asan stood there was nothing, only sand and cracked earth. In the far distance, he spotted a familiar mountain formation, one that he and Raheed had spotted when they’d arrived in Khamal territory. It was probably a half an hour’s walk away.

            Asan twisted around and looked the other way. Behind him, through the zigzag of the ravine, he saw the desert, stretching out into the horizon.

            He was outside the walls of Khamal.

            Asan could run now if he liked. Judging by the state of the tunnel, no one even knew it existed. It must have fallen into obscurity long before Dasaf had become Sumas. This meant that Asan had knowledge of the alcazar that none of the Hahnars did.

            Smiling to himself, Asan crawled back through the hole into darkness and started his journey back to the alcazar. After a long and exhausting climb, Asan jolted at the sight of a figure silhouetted in the crack of sunlight slipping through the panel in the wall. There stood Messenger, ears up and tag wagging, frantically running in circles and barking.

            Obediently, Asan followed him back into the alcazar.

 

* * *

 

            Leyla was able to shake herself of Ghali once inside the alcazar, though she’d fought him valiantly the whole way. He blocked her way to the exit, but he did not seem to mind when she ran in the opposite direction they’d come. He probably thought she was sprinting to her room to cry into her pillow. It was what she wanted to do, but there was a more worthwhile use of her time.

            Hiking her caftan up to her knees, she galloped down a veranda and through a garden. Once she was far enough from Ghali as not to be heard, she called, “Messenger!” as loudly as she could manage. This became her cry as she scoured the alcazar, nearly wearing out her voice. Only when she feared her efforts hopeless did the little terrier leap from the shadows, as if he’d been at her heels the whole time. He was panting heavily, but his eyes and tail were alert, waiting for her command. She wasn’t sure what the command was, but he’d been called Messenger for a reason, was he not?

            “Asan,” she told him. “Go get Asan!”

            That must have been the correct order, because he sprinted away, tail erect and little legs churning. She began to pace along the courtyard path, regaining her breath and running panicked hands along her neck and caftan. She’d never seen Dasaf in such a rage, so she found herself totally incapable of getting through to him. Perhaps Malika would know. She’d dealt with Haadi’s mood swings long enough to know how to weather them. But if Leyla went to her, she knew Malika’s only response would be indifference. She had wanted Raheed dead from the beginning, and maybe she’d just encourage Dasaf to get it done quicker.

            Leyla had so many questions but didn’t know whom she could ask. She had been so focused on fighting Ghali’s iron grip that she hadn’t thought to ask him what was going on. Why had Dasaf’s hands been coated in blood? He’d been out on patrol earlier today . . .

            Leyla stopped in her tracks, horrified. She knew most of Dasaf’s closest guards, and she tried to think if any of them hadn’t been there. But it had been so chaotic, she couldn’t remember. Someone had to have died. It was the only thing that would drive Dasaf to such madness. But whom had they fought?

            The answer was obvious. Mullis. Dasaf and his men must have gotten into some sort of scuffle, or why else would Dasaf target Raheed? If it had been Hahnars or random _faskii_ bandits, Dasaf wouldn’t have gone straight to the only Mulli soldier in his custody.

            Leyla twisted around, ears straining for the sound of footsteps. It seemed like an hour had passed before she heard the hurried slapping of slippers against tile. She exhaled in relief when Asan came running into the courtyard, Messenger leading the way.

            She surged forward and took his hands in hers. “Asan, you must go to the stables, now. Raheed is in danger. Dasaf will listen to you, I know he will. Perhaps you can get through to him, coax him down somehow.”

            “What wrong?” Asan asked, brow wrinkled.

            “Something happened, something terrible. Dasaf is . . . oh Asan, just go! I think Dasaf means to do something awful, and Dasaf won’t listen to me.”

            Asan stared at her a moment, then nodded. “I go.”

            “Thank you,” she sighed.

            Asan was off like an antelope, Messenger galloping at his heels. Leyla watched him leave with bated breath, hoping the servant wouldn’t return with horrible news.   

 

* * *

 

            If Raheed had fought like this with his foot soldiers, they would have laughed in his face.

            Raheed was not the best swordsman in the world, but he liked to think himself far beyond competent. He’d been trained for it since he was eight, and he had some natural skill to fall back on. But he’d never gone so long without practice or physical exercise since he was bought as a child, so expecting his usual finesse to come to his aid was foolish.

            Dasaf had stepped away and a stern man took his place, this one only bearded along his jawline. Raheed swallowed the sticky saliva that had gathered in his throat, trying to ignore the trickle of hot blood down his face and along the few scratches he’d already acquired at Dasaf’s blade. He was short of breath and sweating profusely in the midday sun, so only stubborn determination allowed him to keep the man’s sword from slicing through his neck.

            “You’re not even trying, Mulli. Are these the sort of dismal skills in a man that the Mullis promote?” Dasaf mocked.

            Raheed would have liked to punch him in the face, but he hadn’t managed to work in a blow of retribution. At his peak, Raheed might have found an equal opponent in Dasaf. In his current condition, he was hopelessly outmatched, especially against this man who had taken Dasaf’s place, who had nearly twenty years on Raheed and had sacrificed no endurance or strength for it.

            Raheed moved to block one of the man’s swings, but it came down so hard that it twisted Raheed to the side. Flipping the hilt to face forward, the man drove the butt of it across Raheed’s unscathed cheek, tearing flesh from bone as Raheed collapsed from the force of it. Sheer will enabled Raheed to push the pain aside as he grasped for his fallen sword, but a kick to the underside of his jaw had him seeing stars. He briefly lost consciousness, and when he awoke a bloodstained sword greeted him at his throat, a bead of sunlight running along its edge. 

            Raheed looked up at his executioner and fell back into the dirt. Why was he fighting anyway? As if he could fight his way out of the mob that had already gathered, some of them guards and others curious servants. He was not immune to the cries of approval as he fell, and a few men called out in Hahnar, something Raheed imagined was a demand for his death. He closed his eyes against the harsh glare of the sunlight and spit out one of the molars the man’s blow had loosened from his jaw.

            “Shallaf,” Dasaf said, and the man—Shallaf—stood aside. Dasaf took his place, a figure no less fierce. Raheed imagined most Mulli men would be shitting themselves to be in this man’s shadow, but Raheed found he barely cared. What was his life worth, anyway? Was there a difference between dying out there and dying in here? Asan was safe, and Leyla certainly wouldn’t miss him very long, if she missed him at all. Out _there_ there had been reasons to fight, but now he was no longer needed.

            “You fight poorly,” Dasaf said.

            “I’m sorry to rob you of such a delight,” Raheed muttered. “I’m sure you were looking forward to gutting me quite spectacularly.”

            Dasaf frowned. “I should have killed you long ago, Mulli.”

            Raheed chuckled through the blood in his mouth. “I wish you had.”

            Dasaf tightened his grip on his scimitar, but just before he lifted it, there was a desperate cry heard from the crowd, one that must have struck Dasaf as familiar, because both Raheed and Dasaf turned at once.

            Asan was running across the arena, his dog barking at his heels. A few men tried to intersect him, but they had not predicted his strength, because Asan shoved them back and leaped in front of Raheed, using his body to block Dasaf’s sword.

            “Asan,” Raheed groaned. Not this _again_. “Stop.”

            “ _What this_?” Asan said, or might have said if Raheed could understand any word that came from his lips. Asan had a tendency to slur when he was in a state of excitement. But Raheed could see his hands, and they spoke more clearly than Asan’s voice ever did.

            “How did you get here?” Dasaf demanded. When Asan merely glared at him, his brow furrowed. “Leyla.”

            Shallaf growled something in Hahnar, and then the crowds began to shout in agreement. Someone grabbed at Asan to yank him aside, but Dasaf glared so viciously that the hand fell away.

            “She should not have brought you here,” Dasaf said. Something in his demeanor had changed, thought it was likely too subtle for anyone as far away as the crowd to see. “This is not for you to see.”

            “Raheed do _nothing_.”

            “Asan, step aside. There is nothing you can do for him now.”

            “No.” Asan spread his legs to steady himself, clenching his hands into fists. Raheed thought him braver than any warrior he’d met. There was not a flicker of doubt or fear in that stony face. “You stop this.”

            “Asan—”

            “If you care at all,” Asan said quietly yet firmly, “stop this.”

            Uncertainty passed over Dasaf’s expression, and considering the rage Raheed had faced earlier, he thought it was a miracle that Asan could inspire such a thing. Asan had always joked that he had sway over the Sumas, but to have _this_ sort of sway was impressive indeed. It took something deep and powerful to bring about indecision in a crowd of what had to be at least fifty Hahnars calling for Raheed’s execution.

            Shallaf stepped forward then and stood over Dasaf’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear. When Dasaf looked to his men, they all nodded solemnly. The uncertainty fell away, and whatever weakness Asan had brought forth clamped shut behind gates of steel.

            Dasaf turned to the servants and guards who had gathered and lifted his voice to address them. Raheed allowed himself a moment to be hopeful, but when he heard their shouts of approval, he knew exactly what had Dasaf called for: Raheed’s death.

            Asan grabbed at Dasaf, but suddenly two of Dasaf’s guards apprehended him, taking each of his arms and yanking him back. Asan screamed, bucked, and fought, but as more guards came to assist their comrades, Asan was eventually gagged and bound before being hauled away. When Raheed looked back at Dasaf, pain had joined the original anger.

            “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “all of Khamal is invited to your execution. Let’s see what the Mullis think of us when they see your head mounted on a pike by our gates.”

            “I imagine they won’t miss me much,” Raheed replied. He spit out more blood. “Don’t hurt Asan, no matter what you do to me.”

            “Whatever damage I could do has already been done,” Dasaf replied, voice raw. He turned to the rest of his guards, and they rushed forward to pull Raheed to his feet. They practically dragged him to his hut, and it was there they left him, bleeding, exhausted, and mouth filled with the metallic taste of defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God knows that if people listened to Asan, this book would be shorter cuz they wouldn't have half of these problems. DX
> 
> Also, on a totally unrelated note, I have started putting up my webcomic on SmackJeeves. Feel free to [check it out. ](http://rainbow-mansion.smackjeeves.com/) I cannot be held responsible for any eye hemorrhaging caused by the color scheme. It's still a work in progress (not the color scheme, that's on purpose. Just everything else. 8D)


	24. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's [soundtrack.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fy4o-eLQX3w)

           

            “Fasa.”

            Fasa looked up from the onions she’d been stewing to find Leyla standing beside her. Leyla was usually such a composed person, and perhaps that was why Fasa so easily noticed her distress.

            “Is something wrong, _shuman_?” she asked softly.

            Leyla’s jaw tightened as she lifted her chin and spoke in Aillic. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

            “Anything, _shuman_.” Fasa did not know Leyla well, but the servants spoke of her highly, and Fasa had spent enough time around her to know that she was a good woman, if not quiet.

            Leyla’s hand vanished into her sleeve before she pulled out a small vial. “There are guards standing watch down by the stables. I would be eternally grateful if you might slip this into whatever they are eating tonight.”

            Fasa eyed the vial suspiciously. “I can kill a man, _shuman_ , but only if he puts his hands on me.”

            Leyla shook her head. “It is harmless. It just induces a bit of sleep.”

             “Isn’t that where they have Raheed, down by the stables?”

            “How do you know?”

            Fasa smirked. “Don’t you know servants, _shuman_? Gossip reaches people’s ears faster than birds or messengers.” She sobered. “I hear they’re planning on an execution. I tried to find someone who might listen to me—Raheed’s not a danger to anyone—”

            “Shh, I know.” Leyla held a finger to her lips, glancing over her shoulder. “I know we are speaking in Aillic, but if anyone overhears . . .”

            “If I give this to those soldiers, they’ll be suspecting me.”

            “I’ll take all responsibility,” Leyla replied. “I’ll claim I slipped them the sedative, that you hadn’t any part in it.”

            “You’ll get in trouble, _shuman_.”

            “What are they going to do to me? Put my head on a spike? I’ll take a light prison sentence over Raheed’s death.”

            “Why are you doing this for him? Of course he deserves the kindness but—”

            “It is not the Khamal way to let innocent people die,” Leyla said fiercely, so fiercely that Fasa jumped in shock. Leyla took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed the cool vial into Fasa’s hand. “There is enough in there for more than the two who guard Raheed,” she whispered.

            Fasa nodded in understanding.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf took dinner alone in his garden, though he hadn’t the stomach to eat much. Most of what he consumed was wine, so much of it that there was a ball of warmth in his gut by the time Shallaf arrived.

            “What do you want?” Dasaf muttered, glaring at his goblet as if it were to blame for all his troubles.

            Shallaf stopped in front of the alcove, where Dasaf sat. “Are you going to sit in here and mope like a child?”

            “Fuck off,” Dasaf snarled. “I don’t need your horse shit now, of all nights.”

            “I’ve never seen a man so distraught over killing a Mulli dog.”

            “I don’t care about the Mulli dog,” Dasaf muttered.

            “Ah, so I assume this little temper tantrum of yours is in regards to that _faskii_ pup you’ve grown so fond of?”

            Dasaf drained the last of his wine and swallowed loudly. “Get out of my garden.”

            “This is all _your doing_. If you had just killed the bastard when you were supposed to, none of this would have happened.”

            “Remind me why you’re still my advisor?” Dasaf asked his empty goblet. “I hate you.”

            “You hate me because I’m right. You hate me because I am the voice of duty, and there has been nothing you’ve hated quite as much as your responsibilities. This is clear in that you’ve skirted clear of all of them.”

            “Have you come to tell me how much _better_ a Sumas my brother was?” Dasaf lifted his gaze to Shallaf plaintively.

            “I don’t have to tell you that. You _know it_.”

            “My brother hated everyone, and everyone hated him.”

            “A Sumas’s job isn’t to be loved. It is to protect his people and fulfill his duties. He did all of those.”

            “Then he died.”

            “Unfortunately. I’m sure we would have all been happier were he still alive.”

            Dasaf laughed without humor. “I’m _sure of that_ , Shallaf. You would have been happiest of all, I know. You always loved Haadi more than me. You know the first time I thought you might be inclined toward men? When I saw you look at him. That’s how I knew.”

            Shallaf’s entire body was rigid. “I loved your brother like an advisor loves his Sumas.”

            “I’m sure you tell yourself that at night when you stroke yourself to his memory.”

            Dasaf didn’t know why he said that. Shallaf was always so _cool_ , and even when offended he merely froze faster. His anger was kept in a cage, only allowed exercise when faced with foreign threats. He was the same way in bed—unyielding, and efficient. Dasaf just wanted to _hurt him_. He wanted to see Shallaf lose his temper, just so Dasaf could see the fire that burned under the glacier. Dasaf hadn’t really meant what he’d said. It was true that he detected some hint of desire in Shallaf before Haadi’s death, but it could have been just that—a spark, a brief and passing passion. Shallaf certainly never talked about it, and Haadi could barely bring himself to make love to his wife; Shallaf was so beyond the realm of possibility to make it seem amusing.

            In the end, Dasaf’s efforts were in vain. Shallaf did nothing. He did not flinch, he did not sneer, he did not even blink. Dasaf would have preferred the rage. He deserved it.

            A long silence stretched between them. Shallaf gripped his dagger as if planning to use it, but Dasaf knew he’d never dare. Like Haadi, he was a man obsessed with duty, and it was his duty—an oath he had taken upon Haadi’s coronation—to protect and advise the Sumas at all costs. Even if he hated Dasaf with the strength of all the Mulli army.

            “I’m sorry,” Dasaf finally said, feeling ashamed of himself. “I should not have—”

            “Don’t. Don’t apologize for anything.”

            “Sometimes it’s necessary.”

            “Not for a Sumas.”

            Dasaf sighed and stood. “Shallaf, will you be honest with me?”

            “I always am.”

            That was an undeniable truth. “Did you ever care for me?”

             Shallaf’s expression shifted, but it did not soften. “I must care about you. I’m your advisor.”

            “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

            “Can I provide you an answer that you don’t already know?”

            “I always thought you resented me.”

            “For a variety of reasons, perhaps.”

            It hurt, even though Dasaf appreciated the honesty. “Those reasons include . . .?”

            “You let me have you.” There was a hitch in Shallaf’s voice, almost like a hint of emotion.

            “You speak as if I were passive about it. I’d say it the other way around.”

            “You were sixteen,” Shallaf said. “And me, nearly twice that. I could have—I _should have_ —turned you away. You revealed a chasm of weakness in me I had never explored, and I did not appreciate it.”

            “Who says it’s a weakness?”

            “I never married because of it. I never had children because of it.”

            “You told me that it didn’t matter. You’re the youngest of six sons.”

            “It is the basic duty of a man to find a wife and produce offspring, to continue his legacy. I also hated that you would not do this simple thing, even though it would be so _easy_ for you. Haadi and myself are of a similar breed, but women have always _loved_ you, and you don’t care. You never have.”

            “I care a bit.” Dasaf did like attention, after all.    

            “I have never understood you. I do not like things I cannot understand.”

            “You could have understood if you let me teach you.”

            Shallaf shook his head. “What you wished to teach me were things I did not cared to learn.”          

            Dasaf nodded. “I know.”

            “Lastly, I resent you because you are not Haadi. You are only Sumas because he is dead, and I did love him in many different ways, but mostly like a brother.”

            Dasaf should have scolded him for that. _No one_ loved Haadi, not even his own wife. Yet when Dasaf thought back to it, Haadi had confided in Shallaf things that he told no one else, and he would listen to Shallaf’s wisdom when he rejected all others’. Surely there was no romantic bond there, but there had been _something_ , something Dasaf had never seen or thought Haadi capable of.

            “When the Mulli come,” Shallaf said, “it makes no difference to me who you are. You can always depend on my sword.”

            Dasaf nodded sadly. Shallaf’s loyalty was so strange to him, about as incomprehensible as Shallaf found Dasaf’s sexual wiles. How could you pledge your life to a man you hated? Perhaps this was why Haadi had preferred Shallaf over all others. Because no matter what Shallaf thought of him, Haadi knew Shallaf would be there—even when his own mother had turned away in defeat.

 

* * *

 

            There was a bug crawling across the sill of Asan’s window, one Asan had never seen before. He reached out to touch it, but it scampered away into a hole in the wall.

            With a sigh, Asan sank back against the wall. He’d been locked in this room since they’d dragged Raheed and him apart, and he hadn’t any more energy to pound the door and scream. No one was going to let him out, and tomorrow he’d wake to a world without Raheed in it.

            More tears dribbled down his cheeks, joining the millions that had dried there before them. Asan didn’t even bother wiping them away anymore. He didn’t understand anything that had happened, so he had to suffer confusion as well as utter despair.

            More pain tore through his abdomen, so he collapsed onto the cold tile floor, holding his limbs against his torso. Part of him had to believe that Dasaf would never kill Raheed. That was not the man Asan had fallen in—well. That was not that man Asan knew. Dasaf was kind and just, and that was why Asan had been so drawn to him. Surely if there had been cruelty, Asan would have seen it. He had a knack for seeing these things in people.

            He was stupid. So _stupid_. He should have gotten Raheed out the moment he’d had the chance. It wouldn’t have been hard. But he was such a lovesick fool that he’d put Raheed’s safety at the back of the room, hoping to come back to it when he had the time. Raheed was going to die because of Asan’s stupidity. Raheed had braved starvation and desertion to save Asan’s life, and how did Asan repay him? By ignoring the danger of their situation. By pretending that he was in some fairy tale instead of real life. By thinking that anyone outside of himself and Raheed could be trusted.

            _I love you_ , Asan told an image of Raheed he conjured in his head. _If I could say one last thing to you, I would say that_. _And if you had ever loved me back, I would have been better to you than all the kings in fairy tales were to their queens. I would love you every second of every day and I wouldn’t apologize for any of it_.

            The shadows shifted along the wall Asan faced, so he twisted around. The door had opened just a sliver to admit a dark form. When he lit a candle, Asan immediately recognized him.

            If Asan had had a rock available to him, he would have thrown it. If he’d had a sword, he would have wielded it. As he had nothing, he simply turned away and glared at the opposite wall. If he could not see Dasaf, then Dasaf could not talk to him.

            Asan watched the shadow move across the wall and grow smaller until Dasaf’s feet were planted at Asan’s side. Asan craned his head back to look up at Dasaf, scowling.

            “Asan . . .” Dasaf began.

            “ _No_ ,” Asan snapped. “No talk to me.”

            “I don’t expect that you will forgive me now or ever for what I’ve done and for what I will do. But I do want you to know that it was not a decision I made easily.”

            Asan might have laughed if he weren’t so angry. It wasn’t _easy_? How novel. Why was Dasaf even bothering to explain himself? Asan knew why Dasaf did this, and the knowing didn’t change anything. It didn’t matter whether Dasaf found the task difficult or simple. It only mattered that Dasaf was doing the task to begin with. What made him any different from Yussam? Raheed was being punished for a crime he had no part in, and for Asan it had been the same.

            “If circumstances were different—”

            Asan jerked to a stand, twisting to face Dasaf. Asan might have once quailed in Dasaf’s shadow, but he was too furious to care about Dasaf’s talents. He hadn’t been this enraged in years, and slowly he began to remember the temper he’d buried away. “No. You kill Raheed _why_? For repu—reb—” Asan growled in frustration, signing _reputation_ when he could not get the word through his lips. “Raheed do _nothing_ , and you are _murderer_. You talk to me no more. You leave. Unless you come to kill me too.”

            Dasaf’s expression was unreadable, but Asan detected some desperation. “This isn’t my choice! Nothing is! You think I _like_ killing people?”

            “Raheed bloody and beaten. _You do this_. You and Shallaf and others. You _like_ that?”

            “Those Mullis attacked my men and killed Tarim—”

            “Mullis? Or Raheed?”

            Dasaf frowned. “It was a stupid act of passion. I should not have made a scene.”

            Asan snorted. “All forgiven then! I love you forever now!”

            Dasaf appeared to be torn between anger and distress. “I cannot be many people at once. My people want a Sumas whose justice is swift, who does not know mercy. I am not that man, but I _have_ to be, and yet when I am—when I try to be the Sumas they need . . .” His hand dropped to his side. “I must sacrifice everything for my people. It is the mark of a true Khamal Sumas. This whole _mess_ started because I let Raheed go in the first place.”

            “I _alive_ because you let go Raheed.”

            “But how many has he _killed_ , Asan? More than he’s saved. I know he means the world to you, but to others, to the families of the soldiers he’s killed . . . how do you think they see him?”

            “You kill Mulli men. They have families.”

            “Do they? They are _bhanak_ , slaves to the Mulli empire. They love nothing but their own lives, and when those are taken, there is no one to mourn them.”

            “ _I_ mourn them,” Asan said, gesturing wildly toward himself. “ _I_ love Raheed. Raheed _everything_ to me, and you going to take him from me.”

            Dasaf stared at him, and Asan tried not to think too hard about this admission. He didn’t care if Dasaf was hurt, because he hated Dasaf, more than anything.

            “And why?” Asan continued. He knew he wasn’t making much sense, but he fought to form the words. “Because revenge? Because passion? Because tradition? I care about Raheed more than you care about killing him, more than anyone cares about killing him. Tomorrow everybody forget about Raheed. Except me. I never forget. I live with every day so that you be good Sumas for one day.”

            Dasaf opened his mouth but held it there, speechless. Asan waited, because he wanted to strike down whatever he heard next. Maybe he would even hit Dasaf. It would be stupid and potentially dangerous, but already he felt his fists clenching. He would never win, but perhaps he could land a blow or two before Dasaf slit his throat.

            “I have a duty,” Dasaf finally said, expression delicate and eyes wide, as he held them open to keep them from failing. “I’m sorry, Asan, but this is the way things must be.”

            Asan felt wrung dry. He had used his most potent argument, something he thought could possibly pick through the rubble of their previous relationship and find something salvageable. There was regret and misery in Dasaf’s expression, but Asan saw he was tied to duty as firmly as Asan’s loyalty was tied to Raheed. There would be no breaking him apart. Infuriated, Asan found the most stinging remark he could conjure, the last gasp of a battered loser.

            “Raheed not love me like I do him,” Asan said, “but I chose a lifetime of that over you.”

            There was a brief second in which Asan saw the impact, that flash of pain in Dasaf’s eyes. But suddenly foreign barriers went up, and it was like Asan was looking a different man, stoic and rigid.

            “When tomorrow is done, you are officially free. You may stay or you may leave, and I will bless whatever decision you make.”

            Dasaf turned, his cloak fluttering behind him. The guards by the door parted to let him through, then closed the door, throwing Asan into darkness once more.

            Asan crouched on the ground, too furious for tears. So he settled for the prayers he’d read in Elder Hassad’s books, the ones he’d recited mindlessly whenever Elder Hassad took him to the temple. At this point, only God could help him.

 

* * *

 

            Even Leyla could tell that the saddle was not packed properly, but she didn’t say anything to Fasa, who struggled to pull the camel forward. With both their strength, they were able to convince the beast to rise and take a few steps forward, but the cow was not particularly pleased with her midnight journey.

            “This camel is as compliant as a lamb with Asan at her head,” Fasa muttered.

            “Some camels are more distrustful of strangers than others.”

            “Nutmeg!” Fasa groaned as the camel raised her head and pulled against the lead. “Now is not the time!”  
            Leyla dug into her pocket and found some dates she had swiped from the kitchens on her way down. When she held one up to Nutmeg’s snout, it was gone in a second. After that, Nutmeg seemed more eager to follow them, occasionally running her lips against the back of Leyla’s neck, which was hidden beneath a dark veil to blend into the darkness.

            For some reason, Leyla had thought that the alcazar would be teeming with men, but many of them were attending late night counsels or sent to watch Khamal’s surrounding walls and towers. Very few were milling about the alcazar or in the stables, which was just to their advantage.

            It wasn’t easy hiding a camel from view, but Leyla had taken precautions and fitted her with a dark sheet Fasa had found drying on a laundry line. Kept happy with morsels of fruit, Nutmeg stood patiently as Leyla and Fasa abandoned her at one end of the stables so they could creep around to the other side, where Raheed’s prison hut stood silent and dark. They must not have expected any trouble, because there were only two men at the door, both of whom were asleep.

            “How much of that sedative did you put in their soup?” Leyla whispered.

            Fasa shrugged. “Enough.” She paused. “Why didn’t we bring Asan with us?”

            “Asan is safe. I’m not worried about him.”

            “But what will Dasaf do with him when he sees Raheed missing?”

            “Nothing irrational, I hope.”

            “You hope?”

            Leyla turned back to Fasa with a severe look. “He would never hurt Asan. Trust me.”

            Fasa frowned. “I wish I could believe you.”          

            They let the subject lie. Keeping their backs pressed to the wall, Leyla and Fasa crept closer. None of the guards twitched, so Leyla dug into the pocket of her caftan and removed the key that no one had thought to take from her. Things had been so hectic since Dasaf’s confrontation with the Mullis that no one even worried about her. Her family wouldn’t think her capable of such treason, and honestly, even she could hardly believe it. She could be _beheaded_ for this. Of course she wouldn’t be, but she would not take her crime lightly. She’d have to make sure Fasa found no blame for this, though Fasa didn’t seem to mind either way. She claimed she’d been in worse trouble and survived.

            With shaking hands, Leyla unlocked the door and gently pushed it open. It squeaked, but the guards didn’t react. She couldn’t see anything inside save a pale square on the wall where the moonlight came through the window. She heard someone shift, and then her named, whispered.

            “It’s me,” she hissed. “Quickly. Come.”

            “I’m tied.”

            Fasa nudged Leyla aside and felt her way through the dark. She must have come upon someone, because there was a light _oomph_ and then a sharp “Shh!” Fasa had enough forethought to bring a knife, because when she and Raheed stood, his limbs were free. Yet Leyla still winced when his face came into the light of the moon. Ragged wounds marked both sides of his face, wounds she might have seen fit to stitch had she more time. He limped as well, and she could see pain flash across his face as he moved.

            “Quickly,” Leyla whispered, taking his hand. She pulled him out of the hut and along the backside of the stable, Fasa behind him with her knife drawn. Leyla was comforted by her presence, even if most would find her an odd companion.

            Once they reached Nutmeg and were safe from wandering eyes, Leyla pulled a wet rag from the bucket on Nutmeg’s saddle and used it to clean Raheed’s face. When his skin showed through the blood and dirt, she unlatched her box of remedies and began to gently dab the wounds with healing cream.

            “Why are you doing this?” Raheed asked softly.

            “Shh.” Leyla placed a hand over his lips, pressing more firmly than was necessary. “Later. Fasa and I have packed you food, water, and clean clothes, enough for a week’s journey. We will take you to a woman who will show you the way out.”

            “But where—”

            “Later. Not here.”

            Raheed shut up, and Leyla did what she could with his wounds. She placed the box under a pile of dirty horse blankets, then grabbed Nutmeg’s lead. She would have liked to put Raheed on her, but they’d draw less attention with two of them walking, as Nutmeg was a rather tall camel.

            The alcazar gates were the most difficult to pass, but they had planned for it. Fasa removed her dark veil and draped it over and around Raheed’s head, then removed her cloak and gave that to him as well. In the dark, anyone would think him a woman—at least if they didn’t look too closely. The guards were tense tonight after what had happened with the Mulli soldiers, so all she could do was pray that they’d let all three of them through.

            “I will go first,” Fasa said. “They know me by now.”

            Drawing her own veil over her face, Leyla nodded. They’d certainly recognize Leyla, and they’d ask questions. The last thing she needed was her family to come prowling down here looking for her.

            There were twenty guards at the gate into the city, though most of them patrolled the walls. Normally there were only a few, and they were never wearing rattan armor as they were now. Leyla’s chest clenched with fear at the sight.

             One of the men standing on the street stopped them when they approached.

            “Hello, Jhaim,” Fasa greeted pleasantly, even going so far as to flip her hair. Leyla rolled her eyes, because even her grandmother could flirt better than that.

            “What is it that brings you ladies to the gate at this hour?”

            “You, of course,” Fasa replied, twisting her hair around a finger.

            Jhaim lifted an eyebrow in skepticism. “I’m sure.”

            “Huna’s mother is sick,” Fasa said, an effortless lie. Her flirtation was awful, but her skills as an actress were passable. “We were told to come right away.”

            “Huna? Who is Huna?”

            Fasa jerked her head at Leyla. Leyla lowered her eyes in fake humility. They wouldn’t question a veiled woman who kept her gaze from men. They’d simply think her very religious.

            “And the other?”

            “The camel?”

            A smile teased Jhaim’s lips. “No, the other woman.”

            “Nani,” Fasa replied.

            “They are both going to see Huna’s mother?”

            “They’re both friends. Of mine.”

            “And why are _you_ going with them?”

            “I’m not. They were up here visiting and I said I’d show them to the gate.” That, for once, was not a complete lie. Fasa had planned to return to the alcazar after leading Leyla and Raheed to the gate.

            “Huna and Nani, eh?” Jhaim turned wary eyes to Leyla and Raheed. He lifted his lamp, and Leyla squinted in the light. She didn’t see how he would guess her identity by just her eyes, but if she spoke he feared he might. He was an older man and had seen her pass these gates since she was a girl.

            He turned to Raheed, who followed Leyla’s example and lowered his eyes. To Leyla’s surprise, Jhaim spit at Raheed’s feet with a scowl.

            “ _Faskii_ s. God burn all of you.” He turned to Fasa. “Get them out of here.”

            Fasa nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Come on, Huna. Nani.”

            Fasa gave Leyla and Raheed cursory hugs, though she lingered a few seconds more on Raheed. She might have whispered something in his ear, but from the distance at which she stood, Leyla couldn’t hear. With one last nod, Fasa headed back up into the alcazar, leaving Leyla and Raheed to pass through the gate.

            Leyla had expected the worst, so she felt paranoid as she walked past Jhaim and the other soldiers, waiting for them to fall down on them and rip off their veils to expose their treachery. Instead, Leyla and Raheed peacefully walked through the alcazar gate and into the city, as if this were any other night and they were any other women. Once they had descended the long narrow road and passed out of view of the guards, Leyla jerked at Nutmeg’s lead, forcing her into a faster pace. Raheed followed close behind her, still holding his veil over his face. Sometimes such garments were more a blessing than a curse.

            They walked for perhaps an hour through the city. The moon was already starting its descent, so there were few people in the streets. A couple drunkards were still stumbling home, but outside of hungry dogs, no one crossed their path. Normally Leyla might have been frightened at such a time, but her body was so tense with attention that even a shadow couldn’t have crept up on her. Raheed’s presence was reassuring as well. She wished she could have shown him the city under better circumstances—he might have enjoyed it.

            Finally the clusters of houses broke apart, some replaced with small pens of animals and gardens. A few squat acacia trees broke through the hard earth, their gnarly branches like veins across the face of the full moon. Sometimes Nutmeg would pause and attempt to nibble at the leaves, but Raheed would give her a swat on the behind and she’d move on.

            They had not spoken the whole way down, too afraid of alerting others. But as the houses grew more sparse, Leyla finally felt comfortable enough to whisper.

            “There is a woman I know who lives on a farm up here. She is _faskii_ who migrated here several years ago. She used to work at the alcazar, and I helped her birth her daughter. She was so thankful that she promised me she would do whatever I needed of her. I can trust her to get you behind Khamal borders, partly because she knows nothing and partly because she is _faskii_ and will think you nothing more than that, at least in the dark.”  
            Raheed nodded, finally letting his veil fall. As their pace slowed, his limp became heavier. A trickle of blood leaked through the scabs forming along his cheek wound. If she’d had more time, Leyla would have tended to the wound properly. As it was now, it would probably scar, and perhaps not as nicely as the other on his temple.

            “Why are you doing this?” Raheed asked. “What will happen to you if they find out?”

            Leyla shrugged. “They will probably arrest me.”

            Raheed stopped, grabbing Leyla’s arm to halt her as well. His brow was furrowed. “You shouldn’t be doing this, not for me.”

            Leyla looked down at his grip, and he released her. “It is the right thing to do,” she said.

            “I’m not scared of death. My life isn’t worth—”

            Once again Leyla pressed two fingers against his lips, silencing him “Do not. I have made my choice. It is not yours to make.” Pulling her hand back, she dug into the satchel under her outer robe and pulled out a piece of parchment. She handed it to Raheed.

            “What is this?” he asked.

            “It is an address and a name of another woman I know in Bhajar. She is Khamal Hahnar and loyal to my family. I want you to go there, beyond the mountain. You must make sure not to be apprehended on your way there. Hahnars like to enslave _faskiis_ , but they are not allowed once a free _faskii_ enters city limits.”

            “They wouldn’t enslave me,” Raheed said. “They’d kill me.” He pulled back his veil and some of his hair, pointing to a small brand on the back of his neck. “All they need to do is see this.”

            Leyla shook her head. “Sometimes they do take _bhanaks_ , even if it is illegal. But you do not want to know the vile things they do with _bhanak_ slaves. If you think the Khamal hate Mulli soldiers, then you have never met a Hahnar beyond the mountain. There are men who will purchase enslaved _bhanaks_ for torture, for target practice, for—” She sealed her lips quickly, unable to continue. “Do _not_ let them take you.”

            Raheed nodded, expression resolute. “I will make sure of it.”

            Leyla reached down and took his hand, pulling him down a skinny dirt road hidden by thick, craggy bushes. She stopped just as he took a step forward, resulting in a near collision. They were perhaps a five-minute walk from Rasheesha’s home, and Leyla didn’t want to say any goodbyes in her presence. So in the shadows of the bushes, she reached up and grasped Raheed’s shoulders, drawing him down until her mouth met his. She made an effort to restrain herself so as not to hurt him, but then his arms were so tight around her that she could barely breathe, his lips voracious. Against her will, a few tears squeezed through her closed eyes, but she hoped the darkness would hide them. Her fingers sank into his hair, digging so deeply that she wondered if it hurt him.

            She would have liked the kiss to last forever, but she became acutely aware of the moon’s position in the sky. They didn’t have time. Raheed needed to get as far as he could before sunrise, and Leyla needed to be back at the alcazar to explain her actions. She’d hate for anyone else to be blamed.

            Leyla hadn’t the strength to pull away, so she just turned her head, letting Raheed’s mouth fall on her cheek. When he withdrew his lips, she dug into the pocket of her robes and pulled out Raheed’s Matij scorpion pin, the one she had commandeered when she’d first sent his clothes off to be laundered.

            “This is yours,” she whispered.

            He glanced at it, then shook his head. “Keep it.”

            “I have no need for a Matij pin. I have no fondness for them.”

            Raheed chuckled, his voice strangely broken. “It’s my good luck charm. I think you should have it.”

            “It’s you who will need the luck.”

            His hand closed over hers, pressing the pin against her palm and fingers. “Keep it.”

            Her eyes searched his before she nodded minutely. Pulling her hand back, she unlatched one of the gold chains from around her neck and handed it over to him.

            “I already gave you some money in your saddlebags,” Leyla said. “But if you need more, you will have this.”

            “I cannot—”

            “And if you don’t need more, then keep it as a reminder of me.”

            Raheed pressed his lips together, then nodded, his fingers closing around the chain. “Of course.”

            They kissed once more, a sad and sweet affair that made Leyla’s eyes moist again. Afterward, she took his hand and together they headed down the dusty road to Rasheesha’s hut. 


	25. Reunion

 

 

            A glimmer of lamplight fell across the wall. Asan jolted to a sit, whipping around to face his visitor. It was the middle of the night, if not later, so he wondered what sort of call someone could make at this hour. When he saw a frenzied mass of curls, he knew who.

            _Fasa_?

            Fasa gestured toward him wildly, so both Asan and Messenger slipped out of bed and crossed the room. Fasa took his wrist and jerked him forward though the door Asan had thought locked and guarded. Yet there no guard, and a key ring hung from around Fasa’s wrist. What had she done? He would have asked, but she probably would not understand signs, and when she held a finger to her lips, he knew that his speaking voice might not be quiet enough. So he did not ask questions as she handed him a large bag, a thick cloak, and several canteens of water tied to a belt that he fitted around his waist. Then he followed her down the hall, using only the light of a flame to guide them. Whenever a shadow flickered, Fasa would shove him around a corner and wait until the danger had passed. Yet at this hour, there was no one, not even guards. Asan still wondered what had happened yesterday, as no one had told him anything. He assumed something to do with the Mullis, as he couldn’t imagine anything else driving Dasaf to such madness. Were the Mullis going to attack Khamal after all? Is that why the guards were all gone—protecting the walls?

            “Fasa,” Asan said, tugging her sleeve. He signed, _Where are we going_?

            Luckily she understood. “The front gates. I need to get you out of Khamal.”

            _Why_?

            “Leyla got Raheed out, and I’m afraid that they might lay some blame on you unjustly.”

            Asan’s eyes grew almost as quickly as his excitement did. He grabbed her arm again with one hand, signing with the other, _When? How_?

            “She’s taking him through the city and over the mountain. I wanted to get you out before people notice he’s gone. Maybe you can find him and join him.”

            Asan nodded enthusiastically.

            “I don’t know how we’re going to get through the gates though,” Fasa said irritably, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “The back gates were hard enough. I don’t know if we can even leave the city at this point.”

            Asan shook his head. “I know other way.”

            Fasa looked around quickly, and Asan knew he’d spoken too loudly. She leaned in and whispered, “What other way?”

            “Secret tunnel,” Asan replied.

            Fasa seemed skeptical, but Asan insisted. “I walk entire thing.”

            “Where is it?”

            Asan bit his lip. “Dasaf’s garden.”

            “Great.” Fasa crossed her arms over her chest. “Good luck getting _there_. The family quarters are being guarded with at least twice the number of people than before.”

            “All day?”

            Fasa frowned. “I think only when they’re asleep.”

_We wait then_ , Asan replied.

            “They’ll know you’re gone if we wait any longer.”

            “Then we hide. When Dasaf leave, we go in.”

            “But what if someone sees you?”

            Asan shook his head. “No one see.”

            “Where do you want to hide?”

            Asan looked down at Fasa’s wrist. “Keys?”

            “Zheera’s.”

            “To all rooms?”

            Fasa shrugged. “I guess. But to what ones?”

            Asan took the key ring from her and sorted through them. Most of them were indistinguishable from one another, but there was one he recognized. It was hard to miss with its elaborately carved head. It was probably not the original, but a copy that Zheera kept so that she had access when the family was not around.

            “What is that?” Fasa asked Asan when he held up the key.

            “Bath.”

 

* * *

 

            The last place anyone would look for an escaped prisoner was Dasaf’s personal bath, especially when it was locked. Asan took the key from Zheera’s ring and asked Fasa to return it, hoping that Zheera would never know it was missing. Then he and Fasa parted ways so that he could hide while she pretended nothing was amiss. She promised to return at sunrise, probably around the time the guards changed and when they would realize that Raheed and Asan were both missing. Timing would be everything, because if he waited too long, the guards would be combing the whole alcazar looking for him. He could only hope that Dasaf rose and left early today.

            Waiting was the worst. Asan held Messenger in his lap as he watched steam curl along the surface of the bath water. Asan was made sick at the sight of it. This room was haunted with such a happy memory, a memory polluted by recent events. It seemed like a different life as a different person. Had he really straddled Dasaf and kissed him in this room? It had been a moment almost painful in its perfection, and part of him wanted to keep it that way forever, to protect it from reality.

            Asan jumped when Messenger did. He scrambled to a stand and pulled the door open. Fasa was waiting there for him. It was time to go.

            Orange sunlight flooded the alcazar as they navigated the short distance to the family bedchambers. When they arrived, it was deserted. Knowing that any moment it might not be, Fasa and Asan sprinted down the hall and to Dasaf’s door. It was locked, but Fasa had kept another key from Zheera’s ring and jammed it into the keyhole. Fasa pushed the heavy wooden door open with her shoulder, then closed it quickly behind them. To Asan’s relief, the room was empty. The sheets were tasseled, so even the servants hadn’t any time to visit yet. They must move quickly.

            “I show you,” Asan told Fasa as they made their way through the garden. Fasa’s fingers were locked around his elbow, her neck on a swivel as she jumped at every flicker of movement. Asan might have been so terrified if he weren’t concentrating so hard. He only paused when he came to the alcove.

            Yesterday morning he had left without the box of drawing supplies that Dasaf had bought him, and now it sat at the edge of the alcove in a different place than Asan had set it. Had Dasaf moved it? Asan was surprised that it was still here and not locked away, or perhaps sold back to wherever he had purchased it.

            “What is it?” Fasa asked, looking over Asan’s shoulder.

            Asan showed her. “From Dasaf, to me.”

            Fasa grabbed it out of his hands. She’d never been terribly polite. When she tipped back the lid, her eyes grew in surprise.

            “He gave this to you?” she asked.

            Asan nodded, feeling slightly ill. When Dasaf had given it to him, Asan wondered if perhaps he was falling in love, like those princes in fairy tales. Now he didn’t know what the felt, and it was not the time to deliberate upon it. He took the box back from Fasa and placed it under his arm. It had been given to him. He wanted to keep it.

            “Where is this tunnel?” Fasa asked.

            For a brief moment Asan wondered if he were crazy, if he’d dreamed it all up. It did seem rather unbelievable—a massive secret tunnel leading straight out beyond Khamal borders. Yet when he ran his hands along the wall, he found the panel door, and he pulled it back for Fasa to see. She stuck her head inside, then her lamp. When she pulled back, she was aghast.

            “It leads all the way out?” she asked.

            Asan nodded.

            Fasa glanced over her shoulder. “You should go. Who knows when someone might come in here.”

            Asan agreed. He swung one leg over the alcove bed and through the opening in the wall. When he looked back at Fasa, she was watching him nervously. Her teeth gnawed at her lower lip.

            Asan leaned over and kissed her cheek. _Thank you_ , “Fasa.”

            Something wet glittered along the rim of her eyes, but she blinked it away. A sad smile spread along her lips. “I hope you can find Raheed. If not, there’s enough food and water to make it to Bhajar.”

            Then she hugged him, an embrace that started out awkward but then tightened and became warm. Asan was the first to release her. She handed him her lamp, and then he slid into the tunnel. After sharing a wave, Fasa closed the panel door behind him, bathing him in darkness.

            Taking a shaky breath, Asan headed down toward the dank empty crypts, sending another prayer to God. _May I find Raheed on the other side_.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf was not at breakfast. Leyla asked several of his advisors before she got an answer to his location. Drawing all the serenity from her reserves, she began her slow walk toward the stables.

            When she found Dasaf, he was arguing heatedly with Shallaf. There was no doubt in her mind that they’d found Raheed’s empty room. Men saddled horses nearby, most likely the search team that Dasaf was deploying. Such a waste of time. They all had better things to be doing at the moment.

            “ . . . one of the servants,” Shallaf snarled.

            “Dasaf,” Leyla interrupted in her most assertive voice.

            Both men turned to glare at her. She thought of what Malika might do, and it made her stronger.

            “What is it?” Dasaf snapped.

            “Can I speak with you?”

            “I’m busy at the moment.”

            “It’s important.”

            Dasaf through a venomous look at Shallaf before stalking toward a more secluded part of the stable yard. Leyla followed him.

            “What is it?” he asked as they stopped outside of an empty horse stall.

            “Raheed is missing.”

            “Yes, I realize this.”

            “I did it.”

            Dasaf stared at her in shock and dismay for at least three seconds before anger exploded across his face. “You _what_?”

            “I smuggled him out.” Fasa’s name would not touch her lips under anything less than torture. “I take full responsibility. It was I who put the sleeping tonic in the guards’ drinks, and I planned his escape.”

            It took a few seconds for Dasaf to conjure a response. “You— _you_ did this? Leyla, how— _why_? Why would you do this?”

            “Because we have better things to do than worry about a single Mulli soldier. This is all a distraction, and your time is best spent worrying about the twenty thousand that stand but a week from us.”

            “That single Mulli soldier _lied_ and put all of Khamal in danger!”

            “How? He told us that the Mullis weren’t going to attack Khamal.”

            “Exactly!”  
            “Would you have accepted Hahnar help anyway?”  
            “Perhaps I might have!”

            “Dasaf, you and I know both know the Council never would have approved of it, even if Raheed had told us the Mullis were attacking us that day. Even if he did lie, it changed nothing. His information was incorrect, but it doesn’t matter. The _dangerous_ Mullis are the ones that are out _there_ , and _those_ Mullis are the ones we should focus on, not some whipping boy you’re taking out all your frustration on.”

            “Leyla, do you know the seriousness of what you’ve done?”

            “I know I’m one of the few who has any sense left in this family. You’re free to have your witch hunt, but meanwhile the Mullis are making their own plans, and the less time we worry about _that_ is the faster we’re going to be obliterated.”

            “Where did you take him?” Dasaf grabbed both of her arms. “ _Where did you take him_?”

            Leyla didn’t reply. She just glared at him.

            “God _damn_ you, Leyla!” He shoved her back, running a frantic hand along his hair and beard. “I’m sure he’s worked his charms on you. It was wrong of me to ever put you within his reach.”

            For the first time, irritation poked a hole through her reserve. “What _charms_?”         

            “I’m sure his looks have nothing to do with this then?”

            “ _No_.”

            “Perhaps he made some fickle promises? My God, he’s a Mulli man. He can promise you a mountain of gold or a bracelet made from horse hair and neither is a promise he will ever keep.”

            “He made no promises to me. He did nothing at all. He was perfectly kind, and if any of you stopped treating him like the devil for once, you would have seen it too.”

            “You don’t think the fact that you’re a pretty woman had _anything_ to do with his treatment of you?”

            “Do you think I’m an idiot?”  
            “No, but I know you’re naïve. You don’t know how men are.”

            “How are they then?” Leyla snapped. “Are they raging brutes who act before they _think_? Because I believe that—you’re a prime example!”

            “At least I’m not thinking with my loins like y—”  
            Leyla slapped him.

            She’d never slapped anyone before, especially not Dasaf. There was a list of a hundred men she would have liked to slap before her brother-in-law. But she would not stand to be disrespected in front of his men. She’d rather he put her in shackles and drag her away like a proper foe.

            Dasaf put a hand to his cheek, then drew it away, as if expecting blood. Leyla refused to apologize, so she locked her jaw and waited for his reaction. He could strike her back if he liked, but she knew he wouldn’t. He might be a brute, but he was still her brother.

             “You’re not going to tell me where he is,” Dasaf said, voice strangely even.

            “No.”

            Dasaf frowned. “This is treason, Leyla.”

            Leyla just held out her hands. “Then put me in irons and take me away.”

 

* * *

 

            Around mid-day, Asan finally crouched and snacked on a few of the dried dates that Fasa had packed him. He fed Messenger a piece of jerky, then let him lick water from the lip of a water canteen. Asan’s slippers were not really meant for walking, but the earth was too hot to walk barefoot. Asan made a shemagh from the veil Fasa had given him, then continued his trek at the foot of the Khamal Mountains. He knew Messenger would let him know if anyone came near, either Hahnar or Mulli. Asan mostly focused his attention on getting as far from the alcazar as possible. He wondered what route Raheed might have taken and where they might find each other. His heart ached at the thought of reuniting with his soldier. _His soldier_. No one else’s, not even Mulli’s.

            Relief from the heat only came once the sinking sun stained the sky a soft apricot. Asan’s feet had developed several blisters, so he would occasionally sit and rest them before continuing on. His legs ached from walking, as he had not done so much in so long. But determination drove him forward.

            When Asan pulled more jerky from the bag he carried on his back, Messenger began to bark in excitement. Asan rushed to hush him, but then Messenger quieted on his own, his ears perking to something in the distance. Considering it was a desert, Asan couldn’t imagine what sound Messenger might be listening to. For some reason Asan felt compelled to find the source.

            “Go,” Asan told Messenger, giving him a piece of jerky. “Go find.”

            Messenger took off, Asan following at his heels. He expected perhaps a five-minute sprint, but it turned into a wandering climb up a cliff face, some of it hand over foot. Yet when Asan crawled up onto a ledge, he saw something silhouetted in the distance—a camel.

            As Messenger galloped up the incline, Asan watched a dark figure join the camel. Asan’s heart lodged itself into his throat as he jumped to his feet. Ignoring the pain in his legs, Asan sprinted straight for the man, slamming into his chest and wrapping his arms around his shoulders in the tightest embrace Asan had ever enjoyed.

            Raheed’s arms were strong and warm around him, and that’s all Asan cared about. He dug his face into Raheed’s shoulder, fighting back tears of joy. He thought he’d never see Raheed alive again. Silently he lifted a prayer to Leyla, the one responsible for their reunion.

            Asan was so used to Raheed’s nonchalance that he hadn’t expected Raheed’s fierce grip, nor the way his hand held Asan’s head to his shoulder. Asan wouldn’t complain. He rubbed his eyes dry on the rough material of Raheed’s cloak before finally pulling away, grinning brighter than the sunset.

            “Raheed,” he said with a blissful sigh.

            Raheed grinned, though it looked gruesome when both sides of his face were cut open. Asan could try to fix that later. Raheed ran a hand over Asan’s hair, as if trying to convince himself that Asan were here. Then he drew Asan into another embrace, this one just as bone crushing. Asan felt as if he could just stay like this forever, Khamal and Mulli be damned.

            When Raheed pulled back again, he seemed hesitant to release Asan. “Nutmeg kept bellowing. Damn camel is going to get us both found.”

            _She heard Messenger bark_ , Asan said with absolute certainty.

            “These damn animals of ours,” Raheed joked, then laughed. When his laugh faded, it was replaced with a warm look that Raheed concentrated on Asan. “My God, you’re really here.”

            _You are too_.

            “Tell you what. Fuck everything. Fuck the Hahnars and fuck the Mulli.” He swung around to Asan’s side and clapped an arm around Asan’s shoulders. “It’s just going be us from now on.”

            Asan should have been thrilled. This was what he’d always wanted, after all. It was what he’d dreamed about when he was fourteen, when Raheed came to save him from that quarry. They’d been alone in the desert then, and Asan had loved it.

            But things were not as they were then. So much had changed.

            Raheed turned and squinted into the horizon. “We might have an hour left before nightfall. We best keep moving.”

            Asan nodded, but winced when he walked forward. When he pulled off his slipper, blood ran from two raw blisters, one on his heel and the other on the ball of his foot.

            “On the camel then,” Raheed said.

            Asan moved to Nutmeg and gave her a powerful hug as well. She nuzzled his face, then nibbled at his hair. _Hello to you too_ , Asan signed with a laugh. She began to lower herself to her knees before he even asked her to, almost as if she missed him. Climbing on board, he gave her a firm pat on the neck and she rose beneath him.

            Together, all four of them headed west.

           

* * *

 

            Malika knocked on the door.

            “Go away,” came the muffled reply.

            Malika entered anyway.

            Dasaf was sitting in the corner of his bedchamber, surrounded by pillows and cushions, puffing enthusiastically on the hose of a hookah. Maps were spread all around him, as well as several old leather-bound books. His advisors had been with him several minutes ago, so the entire room reeked of tobacco. It was almost hard to see Dasaf through the smoke.

            “Can you explain to me why my sister is confined to her bedchamber?”

            Dasaf looked up. “I said go away.”

            “I am Suman. I do what I like.”

            Dasaf frowned. “Even if you weren’t, you’d do what you like.”

            She nodded. This was true. “I haven’t been able to speak to you all day.”

            “I sent out some scouts.” He inhaled on the hose again. “They have not yet found the Mulli army, but I’m sure they will soon. Too soon. It is evident to me that they are advancing upon us.”

            “What does my sister have to do with this?”

            “Pah.” Dasaf waved his hand. “Let your sister out, see if I care. I have bigger problems.”

            “I’d like to know what’s going on. I was told a group of Mulli scouts attacked you.”  
            “They killed Tarim.”

            Malika nodded sadly. “I heard. How unfortunate. But again, what does Leyla have to—”

            “She smuggled that Mulli soldier out of the city.”

            Malika was both surprised and yet not at all. She hadn’t the bond with her sister that she’d had when they were younger, but she could read her well. Something had been on Leyla’s mind, and now it seemed obvious. Malika knew that lovesick look. She just hadn’t expected it of her sister, who was married to her books and her remedies. A Mulli soldier, of all people. Was she daft?

            “Asan is gone too,” Dasaf muttered.

            Malika watched him for a moment, because if she could recognize a lovesick expression in her sister, she certainly could with Dasaf. He wasn’t nearly as opaque as he thought he was. She tried not to assume anything in regards to her brother-in-law, but most men would be married by now. Malika decided that there must be a reason, and the look on his face now confirmed it. She didn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, she was disappointed in him, in his inability to resist temptation and do his duty. On the other hand, it explained many things, especially his attachment to that servant.

            “Why is he gone?”

            “I don’t know. Leyla told me she had nothing to do with that.”

            “Are you looking for them?”

            Dasaf ran a hand over his face. “I haven’t the resources or time to worry about it. I told Asan he could go, and the Mulli is not worth it.”

            “Sounds different than your attitude this morning. I heard you had half the guard scouring the alcazar.”

            “Leyla had some part in making me see reason.”

            “Ah. I see.” Malika crossed the room and sank onto a cushion beside Dasaf. When he offered her a hose, she accepted gracefully. It was usually not a woman’s place to partake of the hookah, but Dasaf rarely enforced these restrictions. Now she saw why, when he himself defied them.

            “We need Matij help,” she said.

            “I know.”

            “We must send a messenger immediately.”

            “It can’t be just anyone. You know Jakil Ultar would be offended.”  
            Malika nodded. “Perhaps Shallaf?”

            “No, he is needed here, to advise. I trust him, as he knows more about battle than I do.”

            “Then who else? Another guard or advisor?”

            Dasaf’s expression darkened with thought.

            “I could go,” Malika offered tentatively. “I am Suman.”

            “A woman? No. He’d never accept it.”

            She took a deep breath. “Altaf then.”

            Dasaf’s eyes grew wide at this. “We can’t. It’s dangerous.”

            “More dangerous than having him stay here? If the Mulli come, you know what they’ll do with him.”

            “We will get him out, along with you and the rest of the family. You can take the mountain pass.”

            “Dasaf.” Malika reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. He jerked under her touch, but he did not pull away. “He is almost thirteen. The trip will not be terribly dangerous, as it is in the opposite direction of the Mulli. He will be safer going that way than toward the mountain pass. This way if the Mulli take the city, he will not be here or anywhere near. And the Matij will be with him. They’ll keep him safe.”

            “Will they? I don’t trust Matij promises.”

            “He is betrothed—”

            “Until Jakil Ultar’s daughter is wed, we can’t trust any promise Jakil Ultar makes. The Matij like to fight, but they only like to do it when it is in their interests.” He looked away. “You are right though. Altaf will be safe riding east.”

            “And he will have his guard.”

            “Yes. And Jakil Ultar might listen to him, of all people. He’s just so young.”      

            “You’ve been teaching him all this time. In order to learn, he must be on his own.” She squeezed his arm. “Of all the ways I’ve chided you, I do think you have made Altaf a good negotiator. It makes me think of Haadi’s failures with Multeef.”

            Dasaf snorted, a sad smile on his face. “I’m surprised neither of them ended up killing the other.”

            “I will go with Altaf to advise him,” Malika offered.

            “No. It’s too dangerous.”

            Malika laughed. “ _Khamal_ is dangerous, even before the Mullis came. I was not immune to Haadi’s rampages. He never did strike me, but sometimes I wish he would have. No, I do not fear the Matij.”

            “What if the Mullis intercept?”

            “Will I be any safer here?”

            “I want to get you and Leyla and the rest out of the alcazar and beyond the Khamal border if I can.”

            Malika shook her head. “I will not run. Altaf is a good negotiator, but he is only twelve. He will have to speak the words I feed him. I know how to placate men like Jakil Ultar.”

            Dasaf must have seen truth in it, because he did not deny it. “I will send some of my best guards with you. Your safety and Altaf’s is of utmost priority. He is the last Darim.”

            “You don’t need to tell me.” And Altaf was her son. It didn’t matter to her if he was the son of a goat herder—she’d use every resource available to her to keep him safe. “We need to leave soon. I suggest we bring gifts—the Matij love gifts.”

            Dasaf nodded. “Of course. But you can’t leave until we are sure the Mullis are even headed our way. That last thing we need is a false alarm, especially if we bring the Matij into it.”

            “I hate waiting.”

            “Me too.” He inhaled sharply on his hookah hose, wincing. He coughed briefly, then shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this but . . . I miss my brother.”

            Malika didn’t, but she refused to say it. She took Dasaf’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “If we survive this, you will be greater than your brother.”

            Dasaf’s replying smile was forced and scared. Seeing his fear fueled her own, including her fear for her son. She wanted nothing more than to fold Altaf in her arms and shield him from the world. But it was not his fate, and he’d have to face this cruel reality just as Dasaf had.

            Malika took one last drag from the hookah hose and stood. “I will begin selecting our travel party for our trip to the Matij.”

            “What if the Matij don’t help?” Dasaf asked. “What if they turn us away?”

            “Then we will do what we’ve done for centuries: we will fight alone.”

 

* * *

 

            They had planned on traveling all night, but Asan knew it was cruel to expect such a journey from Nutmeg without allowing her at least a few hours of rest. Raheed thought it was a good sign that they had yet to see any followers, so they finally pulled to a stop and dismounted. Raheed’s limp had slowed their pace until Asan convinced him to ride, so Nutmeg carried both of them and Messenger, as well as their food and water. When she lowered herself to her knees, Asan could practically hear the exhaustion in her sigh. He cradled her head in his arms, watching her eyes drift shut as he ran his fingers through her fur.

            “It’s a shame I couldn’t bring Ahmbra,” Raheed said as he made a small fire from sticks he had collected on his trek over the mountain. “It wouldn’t be as much of a burden for Nutmeg. But I know she would have drawn too much attention in the city, a fine horse like her.”

            Asan released Nutmeg’s head, and she dropped it to the ground, quickly falling back into slumber. Messenger curled up in the gap between her front legs and snoozed as well. They were all tired, Raheed more than Asan. At least Asan was healthy, outside of his blisters. Raheed was still losing blood from one of the two gashes on his face, so Asan tore off a strip from the black veil Raheed used as a shemagh and fashioned a sort of bandage to mop up the blood.

            “I’ll be fine, Asan,” Raheed said, pushing Asan away. But Asan insisted, and Raheed finally let him.

            There was a long silence until Raheed said, “It’s so quiet out here. Reminds me of that damn prison cell.”

            Asan shrugged, and Raheed laughed.

            “Of course, it’s not quiet for _you_.” He reached up and pushed Asan’s hand away. “I think you’ve done enough for today. You should go to sleep. I’ll keep watch and wake you up in a few hours.”

            Asan shook his head. _You sleep. You are more tired than me_.

            Raheed looked like he wanted to argue, but miraculously, he didn’t. He made himself a bed from Nutmeg’s saddle blankets and was asleep almost instantly. Asan sat beside him, staring out across the flat expanse of desert, empty and cold. Craning his head back, he marveled at the sky, which was so clear and huge that he could have spent hours mapping the stars.    

            Raheed jolted in his sleep, and Asan reached out to touch him. When Asan stroked his hair, Raheed fell back into whatever dream had disturbed him, going still once more. Yet Asan kept running his fingers through Raheed’s hair, tracing his curls and the edge of his ear with light touches. Love charged through Asan’s veins again, just as thick and painful as before. Yet it also reminded him of Dasaf, and Asan couldn’t bear to think about _him_. Dasaf hadn’t just cut Asan, he had _disemboweled_ him. Outside of Raheed, Asan would never trust anyone again. He couldn’t even linger on the pleasant memories without feeling as if his ribs would crack and his blood would come spilling out. He hated himself for falling so quickly, so easily. From now on he wasn’t going to think about love or lust or any of those other weaknesses that Dasaf had opened in him. It was a difficult decision to make, considering how Raheed’s head was nearly in his lap and Asan’s hands were practically buried in his hair.  

            When Asan had almost no hope of keeping his eyes open, he jostled Raheed awake. Raheed pulled himself to a groggy sit and smiled, gesturing Asan to the bed he’d made. Asan burrowed beneath the blankets, feeling his dreams beckoning. In a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep, Asan reached out and took Raheed’s hand. Just before his world went dark, he felt Raheed squeeze his hand and hold it, as if afraid to let go.


	26. Truth

 

 

            The scouts Dasaf had sent returned with bad news. The Mullis were a mere three-day’s ride away, and their numbers hovered around twenty-five thousand, a number that did not bode well for Khamal’s future.

            “They seem prepared for battle, Sumas,” said one of the scouts, breathless from running all the way from the stables to the Council room.

            “Did you see any siege weapons?” Hallah asked from her seat at the front of the room.

            “Yes, _shuman_ , some. Catapults, trebuchets, ballistas. Not enough to take down Bhajar, but I fear they could do Khamal walls some serious damage.”

            “Thank you,” Yufa said. “You are dismissed.”

            The scout bowed and marched out of the room.

            This time as Dasaf sat before the Council, he had all twenty of his advisors at his back, most of them tested in battle and wiser than he. Shallaf sat at his side, his face void of expression. There was no fear there, and Dasaf envied him.

            “What shall be our first course of action?” Asha asked.

            Dasaf at least had an answer for that one. “We will be sending a party to Jakil Ultar. He controls most of the scattered Matij tribes, and the betrothal of his daughter to Altaf should make him loyal to our cause.”

            “And who will go in this party?” Myahn asked.

            “Altaf will take forty men, including one of my advisors. Malika has asked for permission to join him.”  
            “Altaf is a boy,” scoffed Yufa. “Why would Jakil Ultar listen to him?”

            “Because sending anyone lesser would make him even less inclined to listen,” Dasaf replied, struggling to keep the acid out of his tone. He shouldn’t be here debating with the Council over their plans, not when he could already feel the sand running through the hourglass. “Jakil Ultar made Altaf fight for his daughter’s hand, and Altaf proved himself. There is no reason he shouldn’t listen to Altaf’s plea.”

            “Perhaps you should go,” Dhima suggested to Dasaf. “You are Sumas.”

            “I must stay here with my people.”

            “I agree,” spoke Shallaf. “Dasaf belongs in Khamal. Altaf is young, but he is capable. He has Darim blood.”

            “I would like to speak to him then,” Dhima said. “Someone go bring Altaf to us. I’m not going to send a boy to make negotiations when so much hangs in the balance. Not unless I’m sure he has the ability to do so.”

            A second later, one of the guards darted out of the room to fulfill her order.

            “If not Altaf, then who?”

            “You have twenty advisors, Dasaf.”

            “For Jakil Ultar, it is not enough.”

            Altaf entered just moments later. He must have been standing nearby after hearing the news of a Council meeting. His stride was stiff as he walked through the parting advisors to stand before Dhima. Dasaf recognized that expression, the one of a boy trying to act the part of a man.

            “You called for me, shuman.”

            “Have you been told that the Mullis plan an attack?”

            “Yes, shuman.”

            “We will need Matij assistance.”

            Altaf’s eyes flickered briefly to Dasaf. Dasaf nodded as minutely as he dared.

            “Yes, shuman.”

            “We think it most wise to send you to ask for this assistance.”

            Altaf inhaled sharply. Dasaf watched him struggle to keep his expression flat. “I would be honored by the chance, shuman.”

            “It’s not about bestowing honor, Darim. It is a matter of whom Jakil Ultar will listen to the most. We need him and his men.”

            “He promised me that he would provide them should I need them,” Altaf replied.

            “You’ll find that Matij promises are not so dependable as Matij ferocity, young Sumas. The Matij do what interests them, and only that. It would be your job to make him see how exactly a decimation of Khamal might threaten his tribes. And it most certainly _would_. Without Khamal as a stronghold, there is nothing keeping the Mulli from moving east and killing every tribe they come across. The Matij also depend upon Khamal goods to keep their tribes afloat, considering they have no agriculture. This may all seem very obvious to us, but Jakil Ultar is fond of games, and I fear he will test you.”

            “You seem to know a great deal about Jakil Ultar, shuman.”

            “I’ve seen three Matij chiefs in my long life, and not one of them has had a scrap of the honor we Khamal hold dear. They are sinister killers _because_ of this handicap, and the day you trust a Matij is the day you crack open your ribs and hand them your heart. However, it is that sort of savagery we need to protect our city from the Mulli. It is the desperate times that force us to call upon our brethren.”

            “He will need council,” spoke Bhani in her fragile voice from the back of the room. “You cannot expect the boy to possess the cunning to outwit a fox like Jakil Ultar.”

            “If I may speak, shuman.”

            Every man turned to the back of the room, where Malika had entered through the door behind Altaf. She was dressed in somber black, her neck bare and her ears unburdened by their usual gold hoops. She strode past the advisors, carrying herself with the sort of confidence she had to have learned from her late husband.

            “Yes, Malika?” Bhani asked.

            “I would like to accompany Altaf on his trip.”

            “Why?” Hallah asked.

            “You said he needed council. I could provide that. I stay away from the battle strategies of men, but I know how to pacify stubborn men, and I know how to stroke egos. It may seem unconventional, and I don’t wish to deny Altaf a more skilled advisor, but I think I have talents that many do not.”

            “Are you sure this isn’t just about protecting your son? Because while I admire the effort, Malika, this is war.”

            “I know, shuman. I will not deny that my offer is born from my desire to protect my son. But it is in this desire that strength lies. I understand what it means for my family and my people if we do not succeed, and I will do anything— _anything—_ necessary to keep them safe.”

            The Council women looked at one another, then nodded. “Very well, Malika. If Darim accepts, then you may accompany him.”

            Malika bowed her head. “Thank you, Honored Council. Neither of us will fail you.”

           

* * *

 

            Asan wondered if his skin was melting off of his bones. When he lifted a hand to his forehead, it came away drenched in sweat. His head fell against Raheed’s shoulder, finding the only comfort in thoughts of ice-capped mountains. Asan saw that at least one of the peaks lying between the Hahnars and here was covered in a dusting of snow. He knew Raheed and him would never climb so high, but it was refreshing to think about, and it made his lips flicker to life with a wishful smile.

            Suddenly Raheed stopped Nutmeg. Asan lifted his head, grabbing onto the back of the saddle when Nutmeg lowered herself to her knees. Raheed climbed off and ordered Asan to do so as well, then began to uncinch her saddle.

            _What are you doing_? Asan asked.

            “It’s too hot to travel. We’re setting up camp right here. Nutmeg should be fine, but we can make our own little tent to at least enjoy some shade.”

            Using Nutmegs saddle and a few sticks they had found along their journey, they made a make-shift tent using the black sheet that had covered Nutmeg during her and Raheed’s trek through Khamal. Black was not the best color, but it did provide some respite from the sun, which felt as if it were only an arm’s length from Asan’s face. It took all of Asan’s self-control to keep himself from gobbling down the water Raheed offered him. Together, they crawled into the tiny tent, knees and elbows knocking in the tight quarters. Even though he had sweated through two layers of clothing and was covered in a thin film of sand, Asan found the proximity enjoyable.

            Messenger slipped into the tent and climbed onto Asan’s chest. Asan laughed and scratched him behind the ear.

            _What are we going to do in Bhajar_? Asan asked.

_You can do servant work._

_And you?_ Asan asked.

            Raheed bit his lip. _I don’t know. I would say_ scribe _but I don’t know much Hahnar. I wouldn’t be of much use_.

            _You could work on a ship,_ Asan suggested. _Become a pirate._

Raheed laughed, knocking his arm against Asan’s side. “There’s a job I can do.”  
            _If you become a pirate, I will be one too_.

            _Of course. We’d pirate the seas together, you and I. And once we have enough gold in our pockets, we’ll buy two houses across the street from one another on a cozy tropical island. We’ll each take a wife, or two. I know the Hahnars take multiple wives_.

            _The Khamal don’t_. Asan rolled over onto his stomach, perching himself on his elbows. It was harder to speak this way, but it gave him a good view of Raheed, which was always worth the sacrifice. _Besides, I don’t want a wife._

            _So you’d rather your cock just wither and fall off_?

            Asan laughed and pushed Raheed, who laughed as well.

            _I don’t need a wife. I can do all of my own cooking and cleaning_.

            “If we’re rich from pirating, you won’t _need_ to do cooking and cleaning, and neither would your wife. For once, _you’d_ be the master and someone else would be the servant.”

            Asan couldn’t imagine it. The idea of wealth was such an abstract concept to him, though he’d come to understand it a bit more with Dasaf. He thought of the box Dasaf had given him, which was in a bag attached to Nutmeg’s saddle. Raheed still hadn’t seen it.

            “I think I’d only take one wife,” Raheed said, digging beneath his robes and running a gold chain through his fingers. Asan didn’t know where he’d gotten it from, but he didn’t ask. He assumed it was a token from Leyla. “If I loved her, it would be all I needed.”

            Asan nodded.

            Raheed looked down at the chain. “In a perfect world, Asan, I might have married Leyla.”

            _She liked you_ , Asan said.

            “Without me paying her to, imagine that.” Raheed chuckled, but it died quickly.

            _Some people can love you without being paid_ , Asan replied.

            There was little reaction to that, just as Asan had expected. It had almost become a game to Asan, insinuating as much as he dared to see how Raheed would react. So far, Asan deemed Raheed entirely dense. What else could Asan do to make Raheed see? Dig a hand into his trousers and stroke him off? Even then, Raheed might find some way to see it as brotherly love. It almost made Asan laugh.

            “Perhaps this is a good thing though. Leyla could do far better than me, don’t you think? She’s the Sumas’s sister-in-law, after all.” Raheed’s hand continued to run along the chain. “Considering her beauty, she could marry any man she liked.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “It is a nice fantasy though, imagining her with me.”

            Asan watched Raheed’s face contentedly. Even with the wounds marring his face, he was still handsome. Asan’s fingers twitched with the desire to push back his keffiyeh and reveal the hair beneath. To resist temptation, Asan continued to scratch Messenger’s upturned belly.

            “You know,” Raheed said after a long silence. “You never did tell me about Akeem.”

            “Akeem?” Asan asked.

            “Yeah.” Raheed’s eyes opened. _The whore at the White House_.

            Asan froze, but Raheed must have interpreted another way, because he laughed.

            “I never asked you about her.”  
            Asan stared at his hands, wondering what sort of lie he should tell. Would he praise her mouth or her hands? Would he make up some sort of brag about his skills? Raheed was so stupid sometimes, he might even believe Asan. It was then that Asan realized Raheed would _never know_. And while Asan had once wanted that, his time with Dasaf had worn the veneer thin. Not only had Asan shed some of the previous shame, but he thought it wrong for Dasaf to know something so intimate when Raheed did not. Raheed was Asan’s confidante and protector. He should know. The more Asan thought about it, the more convinced he became that Raheed _had to know_. And he never would unless Asan spelled it out for him in explicit terms. If Asan told him now, what could Raheed possibly do? Abandon him here in the desert? There was no chance. They needed one another.

            Summing up all of his bravery, Asan replied, _I did not stay with_ “Akeem.”

            “What do you mean?” Raheed rolled onto his side, looking slightly confused. “Did you find another girl you liked better?”

            Asan shook his head. _No girl_.

            “What did I pay for then?” Raheed asked.

            Fear nearly made Asan surrender. Facing down Yussam was easier than this. Raheed trusted him, and Asan was about to lay waste to the foundation they’d built their relationship upon. Even if Raheed didn’t much care for Asan’s preferences, Asan had lied to him for _years_.

            Taking a deep breath, Asan forced out, “Samid.”

            Raheed stared at him blankly for a moment, his brow wrinkling. A trace of a smile stayed on his lips, a leftover from his previous teasing. When Asan kept his gaze, the smile slowly faded.

            “Samid,” Raheed repeated. “Samid, the male whore.”

            Asan finally dropped his eyes to the ground and nodded. He jolted when Raheed snatched up his wrist.

            _“Samid the male whore?_ ” Raheed demanded.       

            Asan tried to pull his hand from Raheed’s grip. “Yes.”

            Raheed released him as if Asan’s skin were ablaze. Seconds later, Raheed was scrambling out of the tent, pushing himself to a teetering stand before striding away. Asan tumbled out after him, terrified that his worst case scenario was about to actualize.

            “Raheed!” Asan said, running after him.

            Raheed marched about five strides before whipping around to face Asan. “How did this happen? Did he force you? If he forced you—”

            It struck Asan that Raheed might be angry about something entirely unrelated to what Asan had assumed. “No!”

            “Then how? _How_ , Asan?” When Asan didn’t immediately answer, Raheed grasped both of his arms and shook him. “ _How did this happen_?”

            _Because I wanted it to!_ Asan signed quickly. _Because I did not want a woman whore, and Malli knew it! She set me up with Samid. Akeem was just a cover_.

            Raheed’s eyes were so wide Asan was shocked they didn’t roll out of his head. The tendons in his throat tightened as his nostrils flared, and slowly he removed his hands from Asan’s arms.

            _Samid and I did very little_ , Asan signed desperately. _I—I was still a virgin after that night_.

            “No,” Raheed muttered, covering his face with his hands. He kept shaking his head, and it led Asan to worry.

            “It obvious!” Asan said aloud. “Malli know! Malli meet me _once_!”  
            “How did she know you?” Raheed snapped, yanking his hands away from his face.

            “We meet briefly on street.” Asan felt himself flush. “Malli and Samid.”

            “He must have—I know how Samid is. He could be very pushy, and I know he and Malli are friends. This must have been forced upon you. They must have tricked you or—”

            “NO!” Asan’s frustration overcame his fear. He felt it begin to pour out of him, all the pent-up anger from years of being misunderstood. “ _Stupid Raheed_! You are stupid! You never _see_. I never want women.” _You just saw what you wanted to_ , Asan continued. _You never saw_ me _._

“So what are you saying?” Raheed demanded.

            _I do not want a wife or a whore. I do not want a woman. I have never wanted a woman, ever. That is you. That is not me._

Raheed stared at him for a moment, then began walking again, heading in the opposite direction of Nutmeg. Asan began to follow him, but stopped when Raheed jolted to a halt. When Raheed turned, his face was morphed into an expression of both contempt and horror.

            “You . . . you and . . .” His eyes shot even wider, then narrowed into furious slits. “You and _Dasaf_.”

            “Raheed,” Asan said, anger crumbling away to reveal his original desperation. Of all the times for Raheed to see through his cloud of naïve stupidity . . .   

            “It’s true, isn’t it?” When Asan didn’t answer, Raheed crossed the distance between them in two strides and grabbed Asan’s arm. Asan tried to pull away, but Raheed’s grip was iron. “ _Isn’t it, Asan_?”

            Trying to hold back tears, Asan nodded. He yelped in shock when Raheed shoved him backward.

            “So while I was rotting in a cell,” he shouted, “you were _fucking_ the _Sumas_ of Khamal?”

            The first tear rolled down Asan’s cheek, and he wiped it away with a violent sweep of his hand. “No. Raheed, _no_.”

            “No? Then what happened? Tell me. Tell me what sort of tryst you were enjoying with that fucking Hahnar _swine_ while my life was at his mercy. Did each climax win me another day of life? Was that the _sway_ you held over—”

            Raheed might have finished, if Asan hadn’t punched him across the face. Only after his fist recoiled did Asan realize what he’d done. As Raheed stumbled backwards, Asan turned and ran, not sure exactly what his destination would be. There really wasn’t anywhere to _go_ , not without water and food. Still, maybe he could put some distance between them until Raheed decided against retaliation.

            Asan didn’t need to worry about it very long, because seconds later, Raheed tackled him from behind, hauling them both to the dirt. Asan twisted, swinging an elbow out in hopes of pushing Raheed off of him. Raheed shoved the arm away, trying to grasp Asan’s wrist but failing to get a proper grip. His hand slipped and the butt of his palm hit Asan’s temple hard, just as Raheed’s other hand grappled to hold Asan’s robes. Asan wiggled a leg free and propped a knee on Raheed’s hip, trying to roll him over, but Raheed was heavier than Asan, even if their strength was about equal. Raheed managed to grab hold of Asan’s wrist again, twisting his arm so hard that needles of pain shot across it. Yowling, Asan paused just long enough for Raheed to grab his other hand and hold them both above his head, pinning him to the dirt. Asan tried kicking, but Raheed crossed his calf over both of Asan’s ankles, holding him captive.

            “I should kick your ass!” Raheed huffed, breathing heavily. “You nearly broke my fucking nose!”

            “Get off!”

            “Stop struggling and I’ll consider it.”

            Asan’s body went limp, but his glare was as searing as ever.

            For a second they both glowered at one another, anger raging about as hot as the sun blazed above them. Then Asan felt it begin to leak out of him like sweat, evaporating quickly in the dry desert air. For Raheed the process appeared to be slower, but after a few moments Raheed let out a heavy sigh and his head dropped against Asan’s shoulder. Then his shoulders shook, and for a moment Asan thought he might be sobbing. But when he lifted his head again, Asan saw that he was _laughing_.

            “You punched me,” he said, grinning. “You fucking punched me, beggar boy.”

            Asan didn’t understand. He had thought for a moment that Raheed would _kill_ him. His confusion must have struck Raheed as even more amusing, because he laughed harder.

            “Have you ever punched anyone since you were eleven?” Raheed asked.

            Asan shook his head.

            Raheed sat up, releasing Asan’s wrists. Finally he climbed off of Asan and held out a hand for Asan to take. Asan was hesitant, but finally he grasped Raheed’s wrist and let Raheed yank him to a stand.

            “Not funny,” Asan finally said when he saw that Raheed was still smirking.

            “Not really, no.” Raheed ran over his face, and he grew serious again. “My brain feels cooked to a medium-well at the moment.”

            Asan re-adjusted his clothing, glancing nervously at Raheed. _Are you still mad_? he asked.

            “Yes.” Raheed grabbed the keffiyeh that had fallen on the ground and brushed it off before shoving it back on his head. “I am.”  
            _About Dasaf_?

            “Yes. That and other things.” Raheed headed back to the tent that they’d erected, patting Nutmeg across her rump affectionately. His hand moved to his jaw and rubbed it. “Can’t believe you punched me.”

            Asan returned to the tent as well, self-consciously pulling at the tufts of fur shedding from Nutmeg’s neck. “Is not what you think.”

            “What isn’t?”

            “Dasaf.” Asan lifted his eyes to Raheed. “Is complicated.”

            “You never told me that you didn’t . . . _go_ for women,” Raheed said. “Why not? Why did you let me believe all this time that you did?”

            _I thought you would be mad_. _I was right. You are_.

            Raheed sighed. “Maybe you need to spend more time around women.”

            Asan frowned. _That has nothing to do with it_. _I have always been this way. Always_.

            “Since when?”

            Asan couldn’t help but think, _since I saw you_. But this was not the time for _that_ confession. Asan answered instead _, since I was a beggar boy_.           

             “And no one—I mean, no man, ah, abused you in any way?”

            “Raheed!”

            “I am trying to understand this, Asan!”  
            _There is nothing to understand. You want to fuck women. It is like this with me, but for men._

“But _why_?”

            _Why do you want to fuck women?_

            “It’s not that simple.”

            _It_ is _simple._

“Okay, beyond that then . . . _Dasaf_? Perhaps I could see Samid, a little bit. He was persistent, and he was pretty in a, uh, _whorish_ way, but Dasaf? _Dasaf_?”

            _I don’t need a man to be pretty._

            “Dasaf is Hahnar.”

            Asan might have laughed if he could find it within himself. _Leyla_ _is Hahnar._

Raheed opened his mouth, then closed it. “Leyla is different. She has done nothing but help both of us. Dasaf has hated me since I arrived. It was only through the insistence of Leyla and . . . and you . . .” Raheed paused. “He listened to you.”

            Asan shook his head. _Not at the end_.

            “Dasaf is like you then.” Suddenly Raheed’s eyes grew, as if he were just comprehending this. “I would never assume—a man like Dasaf—but then I guess it makes sense. He was a bit _odd_ when I first met him . . .”

            Asan let Raheed talk to himself for a moment before reaching into the saddle bags and pulling out the box Dasaf had given him. It was this he showed Raheed.

            “What is it?”

            _Open it_.

            Raheed opened the box and took out the leather book inside, as well as the inkwell and quill.

            “Where did you get this?” Raheed asked

            “Dasaf.”

            “Dasaf gave this to you? As a gift?”  
            Asan nodded, feeling heat rush to his face.

            Raheed ran his fingers along the gold leaf on the cover. “How did he know that you loved to draw?”  
            _I told him_.

            “What else did he know about you?”

            Asan thought, _He knew that I love you_ but instead he said, _He knew that I admired men. He did not force me or pay me or anything sinister. I . . ._  He looked down at his feet. _Dasaf was very kind to me._

            Raheed put the book and quill back inside the box and clicked it shut. “I feel like this is my fault. I should have treated you better.”

            _Dasaf has nothing to do with you. After he promised to kill you, I told him I hated him_.

            “Do you?”

            Of course not, but Asan wanted to put it all behind him. So he stepped over to Raheed and squeezed his arm. _It doesn’t matter. We left, and he no longer concerns either of us._

Raheed slid an arm around Asan’s shoulder in a half-embrace. “I appreciate all you did to save my life, Asan. Never think that I am ungrateful. And even if I may not like the truth you have revealed, I’m glad that we can finally be honest with one another.”

            _Yes, no more buying whores for me_.

            “Well, maybe I’ll get you one more to your tastes then.” Raheed’s smile was fragile and awkward, but he was trying, and that made Asan far happier than it should have.

            _We should go_ , Asan said, pulling away from Raheed’s grip. _It will be another two days until we reach the pass._

            Raheed nodded. “Let’s keep moving then.”

 

* * *

 

            “I don’t feel like I should go,” Altaf said to Fasa, who was helping him pack his saddle bags. He didn’t think she was doing the best job, but he had requested her help specifically, knowing that she would be one of the few who wouldn’t try to lecture him. He was going to withstand lectures for the next two weeks, so he needed a brief moment of respite.

            “Why not?” Fasa asked.

            “What if something happens to Khamal while I’m away? What if everyone dies?” He looked down at the heavy cloak in his arms, useful for the cold nights. “What if I come home to rubble?”  
            “You can’t think like that.” Fasa latched a bulging saddle bag flap and stepped over to him, taking the heavy cloak. “Your uncle and his men are great warriors. They won’t let Khamal fall.”

            “Even my uncle is not invincible.” Altaf bit his lip. “What if he dies, Fasa?”

            “If he dies, then it will be defending all that he loves.” She began folding the cloak again, correctly this time. “It is not a bad way to die, considering the alternatives.”

            “I don’t _want_ him to die.”

            “He will die. The only unknown is _when_.”

            “I’d prefer he be an old man when he does.” Altaf inhaled shakily. Thinking of his uncle dead made fear run rampant in his stomach. Looking beyond the love he had for Uncle Dasaf, Altaf was not prepared to be Sumas. This trip alone felt beyond his ability. Why should Jakil Ultar listen to him anyway? Altaf had killed one sick Mulli, and he still had nightmares about it. Jakil Ultar’s younger boys killed Mulli warriors during raids, and they treated it like some jovial sport. Jakil Ultar respected Uncle Dasaf because Uncle Dasaf was a grown man who had fought and executed Mullis before. All Altaf had was his name: Darim. The Matij didn’t care about names or titles or money. If Altaf went and could not convince Jakil Ultar to help . . . if he traveled so far only to return with nothing . . . there would be no flame hot enough to burn away the shame. Altaf would be a fool before he even took on the title of Sumas.

            _He has to listen to you_ , Altaf thought. _One day you will be his son-in-law, and the Matij_ do _care about family_.

            “If your uncle dies, then you will deal with it. Right now there is no use thinking about it. I’ve found that life becomes much easier if you only face the problems that have already been born. For now, think of Jakil Ultar and how you might convince him to assist us.”

            “Maybe he’ll ask me to kill another Mulli.”

            Fasa shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll want you to marry his daughter right away.”

            Altaf had been avoiding thinking about _that,_ mostly because it was not nearly so important as everything else going on. “I’m not old enough to marry his daughter.”

            “You are nearly thirteen.”

            “I can’t even grow a beard yet.”

            Fasa shrugged. “Some girls are married before they bleed. Doesn’t stop men from marrying _them_.”

            The door swung open, admitting Leyla. Before Altaf could move, she swept him up into a tight embrace.

            “Your men are mostly packed for the journey,” she said as she pulled away. “Are you nearly ready?”

            Altaf nodded. “I just want to say goodbye.”

            “Of course.” She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. “Stay safe, no matter what. You are future Sumas.”

            “As if I could ever forget.”

            Leyla pressed a fierce kiss to his forehead, and he allowed himself to hug her again. He knew he should have been more like his father, cold and hardened, but for just a moment he needed his aunt’s warmth and love. He wished she was coming with him too, but Dasaf wanted her and the rest of the women in the family protected somewhere within Khamal.

            “Is it okay to say that I’m scared?” he whispered in her ear.

            “Of course it is.” She kissed his cheek again. “Only fools aren’t afraid.”

            “My father never was.”

            “Your father was foolish then.”  
            Altaf didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t remember his father, only what others had said. While the servants never spoke of him directly to Altaf, Altaf had heard them gossiping. Darim Haadi was respected, but he was not well-loved. Even Altaf’s mother’s praise of her husband was stilted and forced. Everyone agreed that he was a powerful and dedicated Sumas, a man Mullis and Hahnars alike feared. But Uncle Dasaf said that being feared was not enough. A Sumas had to be loved too. Altaf wanted to think his father was the greatest man in the world, but the evidence was not in his favor.

            “Before I start crying, you should probably get going. Malika will be looking for you.”

            “You can cry,” Altaf told her. “I don’t mind being cried over.”

            “You sound like Dasaf,” Leyla said with a shaky voice. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and she quickly flicked it away. “Oh Altaf, take care of yourself and your mother.”

            “As long as you promise to stay safe yourself.”

            “I will do what I can. I love you.”

            “I love you too, Honored Aunt Leyla.”

            They embraced once more before Fasa and Altaf picked up his saddle bags and headed out into the hallway. They had just entered the main plaza on their way to the stables when they came across Dasaf, surrounded by a group of soldiers and advisors. They were arguing over a large map, pointing to locations on the walls and towers surrounding the city, as well as those protecting the alcazar. Upon seeing Altaf, Dasaf broke away from his men and strode over to his nephew. Altaf was so used to seeing Dasaf with a smile and a laugh that he barely recognized the stern and vaguely haunted expression on Dasaf’s face now.

            “Come. I’ll take you down to the stables,” Dasaf offered in a low voice. He glanced at Fasa. “Hello, Fasa.” His usual warmth was lacking. Altaf believed Dasaf blamed her for the disappearance of Raheed, though he couldn’t prove anything. Fasa had always liked Raheed and Asan, so it would make sense.

            “Do you have advice for me?” Altaf asked.

            “Don’t get bold,” Dasaf replied. “Do as your mother and your guards instruct you. Respect their age and experience. I’m sending Ibahn with you, so he will help you in any way that Malika cannot.”

            Shallaf was Dasaf’s highest-ranking advisor, but Ibahn stood only a step below. Altaf was surprised Dasaf could make the sacrifice.

            “Shouldn’t he stay here with you? He’ll be needed.”

            “Your mission is of highest importance, Altaf. This isn’t some frivolous journey I’m sending you off on in order to build character. This could be the difference between our victory or destruction, and I want Ibahn with you to make sure that all goes according to plan.”

            “And Mama.”

            “Malika doesn’t know much about battle strategy, but with men like Jakil Ultar, she is one of the only few I would trust with such delicate negotiations. She knows how to deal with stubborn, proud men, so I want you to put aside the fact that she is your mother and listen to her. No petty fights, do you understand?”

            “Yes, Honored Uncle.”

            The honorary title wasn’t necessary, but Altaf wanted his uncle to know that he was taking all of his advice to heart. So often Altaf would roll his eyes and shrug, but he’d been terrified ever since he’d been told about the Mulli threat. This would be his first important task as future Sumas, and it was one that so much relied upon. Altaf feared failing and what that would mean for his people.

            Dasaf paused in a hallway leading down to the stables and suddenly pulled Altaf into a fierce embrace. Altaf stiffened for a moment in shock, then melted, feeling more childish and in need of protection than ever. He wished more than anything that his uncle would come with him. Dasaf was a grown man; Jakil Ultar would listen to him. And if he didn’t, Dasaf could fight him. What could Altaf do? He wasn’t ready. He knew he wasn’t.

            “What if I fail?” Altaf asked, pulling back just enough to look up at his uncle. “What if everyone dies because of me?”

            Dasaf took Altaf’s head firmly between his hands, eyes stern. “Don’t even let that possibility cross your mind. You are _Darim_. Your ancestors fought for their freedom from the Hahnar Empire and _won_. Even the Mullis haven’t managed _that_. Jakil Ultar and his men are descended from defectors, thieves, and camel herders, and you remember that when you face him. In your veins runs the blood of heroes and martyrs, men who stood up to injustice and tyranny.”

            “But—” Altaf bit his lip. “Uncle Dasaf, I am not like my father or grandfather.”

            “No.” Dasaf kissed Altaf’s forehead before pulling back. “You are much stronger than them.”

            Altaf didn’t feel like it, but he nodded.

            Dasaf began walking down the hall again, so Altaf followed, trying to move with his uncle’s authoritative grace and confidence. Maybe if he mimicked Dasaf enough, he’d fool Jakil Ultar into thinking he was a man worth listening to.


	27. The New General

 

            Asan woke with a blade to his throat.

            Still drifting between the world of sleep and awareness, Asan lashed out with his hand, dragging his fingernails down ridges of bone. He was then shoved aside violently—proof that Raheed was not just fooling with him.

            Asan reached out again, trying to slam his elbow into whoever was grabbing at him. The blade cut deep enough into his neck to draw forth a trickle of hot blood, and an arm wormed its way across his chest, pulling him back against his attacker. It was too dark to see much, but he saw dark forms a few strides away—horses.

            “Raheed?” he blurted, frantically trying to look behind him. His captor was strong enough to thwart Asan’s efforts and drew him toward one of the nearby horses.

            Suddenly they paused, and there was a brief moment when the knife was lifted from Asan’s throat. He bolted forward, swinging around and grabbing for the dagger he’d found packed for him in his supplies. Raheed had asked that Asan keep it close and now he knew why.

            A small shadow was darting around the man’s heels, occasionally snapping at the man’s crimson cloak. The distraction granted Asan a quick glance around him. Nutmeg was ambling away, the few bags they hadn’t unpacked flapping against her sides. Several more men were wrestling with a shape that had to be Raheed.

            Asan rushed forward to stab his attacker, but the man swung out of the way, raising his sword just as Asan’s thrust missed him by a breath. At first he’d thought the sword was meant for him, but seconds later, the blade descended into Messenger’s neck, severing it completely.

            “ _No_!” Asan cried out, swinging blindly at the red-cloaked man. But the man struck him so hard across the face that Asan stumbled to his knees, vision speckling. A moment later, his arms were yanked behind him and knotted with a scarf. This didn’t keep him silent or still, but the man grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back so that the sword could return to his throat. Asan felt the man’s hot breath in his ear, probably whispering cruel threats. Asan would have shoved him off if not for both his position and the fact that he’d beheaded Messenger without a moment of hesitation. Asan wouldn’t be any good to Raheed dead, and this man definitely would not hesitate to slit Asan’s throat with the slightest provocation.

            From what Asan could see, Raheed was outnumbered and in poor condition. He was soon apprehended and thrown down to kneel beside Asan, bearing even more wounds than Dasaf had given him. Blood dribbled down his face from a cut across his forehead, and his bottom lip was split in two. When he looked at Asan, there was no reassurance in his eyes.

            One of the men lit a torch, finally giving Asan and Raheed a good look at them. Asan’s suspicions were confirmed. Only one type of man wore a red cloak.

            Mullis.

            Asan had hoped for Hahnars. At least Hahnars wouldn’t recognize them. But what Mulli soldier would forget the servant who had been pulled to the center of the camp for a public stoning? Or the captain whose crimes had warranted it?

            Out of the corner of his eye, Asan saw Raheed laughing. It was not the laugh of an amused man, but a deranged one.

            “My God,” Raheed said. “Fate is cruel. How have you all been while I’ve been away? Killing Hahnar babes, I hope.”

            They hit Raheed so hard that it reopened the wound across Raheed’s cheek, the one Dasaf had given him with the grip of his sword.

            “A scout said something about some _faskiis_ headed for the Hahnar pass. I had no idea it would be _you_.”

            Raheed lifted his eyes to the speaker, and Asan recognized him at once. He looked different with more facial hair.

            “Lieutenant Uthal, you look well,” Raheed said with the best smarmy smile he could manage with his mangled lips. “Promoted, I see. Must have sucked Yussam’s cock well for that honor.”

            They hit Raheed again. This one sent him sprawling, struggling to right himself. Asan watched a string of bloody drool stretch between the ground and Raheed’s lips as he pushed himself to a sit.

            “For a coward, you sure know how to run your fucking mouth,” First Lieutenant Uthal snarled. “I should behead you right here.”

            “Go ahead.” Raheed smiled, his teeth coated in a film of blood.

            “I would, but I’m sure General Yussam would prefer to do it himself.”

            Raheed frowned, sarcasm draining away. “General?”

            “Of course you haven’t heard. General Mamid was killed in the north two months ago. You want to know what took him? Poison. From a well-paid whore.” First Lieutenant Uthal laughed. “Bastard didn’t even go down fighting.”

            Raheed glanced at Asan, who felt oddly numb. They’d been so prepared to fight off Hahnars looking to enslave them. They hadn’t really thought about _Mullis_. But now that they were in this situation, Asan was filled with a terrible dread. Anything the Hahnars would have done paled in comparison to the sort of vengeance Yussam would think up. Would their death be by stoning? Or something even more macabre?

            “On your feet now,” First Lieutenant Uthal ordered, so Raheed and Asan’s tethered arms were seized and lifted, forcing them to stand. Asan looked over his shoulder, pleased to see that at least Nutmeg had seemed to vanish. They were in the hills at the base of the Hahnar Mountains, so maybe she would be safe and hidden. His throat swelled at the dark lump he knew to be a dead Messenger, though he was glad that it had been a quick death.

            That was better than anything Asan would be afforded once he reached the Mulli camp.

 

* * *

 

            Raheed would have fought his captors all the way to the camp. He wanted to see how much he could do before they killed him. That was what he _wanted_ , for both himself and Asan. But just as the sun began to rise, several of Uthal’s men forced him to his knees and produced a canteen that did not smell of alcohol. Raheed wiggled his arms and shoulders against his bonds, trying to move his mouth away from the canteen, but they held his nostrils closed and worked their fingers beneath his lips. Raheed had to open his mouth to breathe, and with that breath came the taste of a bitter tea that seemed vaguely familiar. The men’s fingers squeezed the edges of the container so firmly that it prohibited him from taking another gasp of air. Unable to swallow it all, some of the tea flowed from the corners for Raheed’s mouth. When they finally did pull it away, he bent over and coughed to remove what felt like a bucketful of liquid from his lungs.

            “What the hell did you give me?” Raheed demanded hoarsely, raising his eyes to a smug Uthal.

            “You’ll see,” Uthal said, then ordered Raheed to his feet once more. Raheed’s legs shook but held, so he took a few stumbling steps forward.

            Asan and Raheed’s hands were bound and tied to ropes attached to the pommels of the soldiers’ saddles. Twice already the men had kicked their horses into paces they knew neither Asan nor Raheed could match, so the rope had been stained red by the abrasions it left on their wrists. Raheed avoided looking at Asan; it reminded him of his failures. How many times did he have to put his servant in danger? How many times would he be forced to watch Asan suffer because of enemies Raheed had made?

            Raheed was really beginning to miss that cell back at the stables. Even considering his prisoner status, at least he’d gotten to see Leyla every now and then. Asan had been safe, and Raheed didn’t have to feel that goddamn sun cooking the meat on his bones.

            Raheed’s legs wobbled, and suddenly the desert began to slant sideways. A second later, he was lying in the dirt, staring up at the sun. Something was dragging him along the ground, but the pain that had previously occupied his wrists was just a tingle, easily ignored. The sky. The sky was _beautiful_.

            Someone was laughing, and it made Raheed smile. Well, at least someone found his situation funny. If he died, he’d do so by putting a laugh in someone else’s mouth. That sky though. Leyla had a caftan that color, with little white beads along the neckline. God, he wished she were here now. He’d marry her. Fuck Khamal and the Hahnars and the Mullis. He’d marry that goddamn woman, and they’d be happier than anyone ever was.

            Asan loomed over him, but it was as if Raheed were seeing him underwater. He tried reaching up to touch him, but Raheed couldn’t move his hands. Then Asan was shoved aside, replaced by Uthal. Uthal and his stupid beard. Ha! He was still a boy wearing man’s clothing. Raheed could grow that beard while he slept. He bet it took Uthal two months to grow it.

            “Feeling better?” Uthal said, but his voice sounded as if it had come from a long distance.

            “What . . .” Raheed tried to regain control of his tongue. “What did you . . .?”

            “Opium.”

            “Opi . . .” Raheed trailed off, eyes darting back to the sky. God. Why had he left Khamal? This place was terrible.

            “I’d love to drag you the whole way, but maybe I’ll just have your servant carry you. Servant, get over here and carry your master.”

            More laughter. Raheed laughed too. It was funny. Everything was funny. He was going to die, and that was funny too.

            Raheed felt gentle hands pushing him to a sit, then Asan’s face again. Asan seemed so dour, and Raheed wanted to fix that. He tried to meet Asan’s gaze, but his neck felt weak and Asan’s eyes darted from his.

            “Asan,” Raheed whispered, “I’m sorry.”

            Asan said nothing as he hoisted Raheed to a stand, slipping an arm around Raheed’s waist and dragging him forward. The others laughed harder, especially Uthal, his red cloak curling around him like a cape of blood. Raheed realized he hated them without feeling the brunt of the hatred. It felt as if he were reading about it in some dusty historical text— _Raheed hated the Mullis_. Thank God he was so numb to it or he might have killed them by any means necessary. All that felt real to him at the moment was Asan’s strong arm around him, the heat of his body grounding him even as Raheed’s vision swayed.

            “I’m sorry,” Raheed said again. “I’m sorry, Asan.”

            Asan wasn’t looking at him; Asan couldn’t hear him. So Raheed kept saying it, even after he stumbled and nearly took Asan to the ground with him. Even after the Mulli men mocked them and sneered. _A traitor and his pet_ , they said.

            _I’m sorry_ , Raheed said, even as his voice left him. _I’m sorry_.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf recognized the sobbing.

            He drifted through the corridor, searching for a familiar door. It was so dark he could barely see anything. Sometimes a mosaic would light up on its own, as if a flame burned beneath it. Tiled lions and vultures glared down at him, maws opened wide as he passed.

            “Mama?” he called. She knew it was her. It had to be her. She must have fought with Father again.

            Dasaf quickened his pace, and as he ran further through the labyrinth of hallways, the sobbing changed. It was deeper, the cry of a man. But it still morphed, and by the time it was loud enough for Dasaf to determine its direction, it wasn’t a sob at all. It sounded a bit like a cry because of its pitch and volume, but it was definitely the pleasured moaning of someone deep in ecstasy.

            Dasaf stopped in the middle of the hall, under the gaze of several scorpions whose images covered the arched ceiling.

            “Asan?” Dasaf asked tentatively. There could really be no one else who would make such raw sounds, and Dasaf knew that for a fact.

            When he turned, a door appeared, lit by some sourceless sunlight just a few strides away. Dasaf considered turning around, but when he looked up, the scorpions had become real, scuttling along the tile like spiders. The mosaic beneath began to vanish behind the swell of their sudden population. Each scorpion seemed to breed three more, and soon they were nothing but a twitching, writhing black mass that glittered right over his head, their hissing droning on like a swarm of locusts.

            In a panic, Dasaf ran forward and swung open the door. Then he quickly closed it behind him, pressing his back against the wood in relief. Yet when he saw the scene set before him, he almost preferred the scorpion horde he’d left behind.

            Gold-threaded cushions were piled in the center of the room, lit by a single latticed window so ornate it could have only been the window in Khamal’s main temple, right above where the High Khalkar stood during his usual prayers. It seemed smaller now, almost like a replica made for one’s home. It threw a maze of floral and geometric patterns of sunlight across Asan’s skin, reflecting off beads of glistening sweat. It was every painful fantasy that Dasaf had ever endured, especially since Asan’s head was twisted toward him, those black eyes focused on him in pure, sweet pleasure. Any moment of bliss that Dasaf might have enjoyed at the scene was immediately shattered, however, when he saw the body moving above Asan.

            _Mulli_.

            It wasn’t that Dasaf never imagined Shallaf with another. Sometimes he’d play with the idea, because watching was easier than doing, especially with Shallaf. And perhaps in the more crude parts of his mind, he might have fantasized the same with Asan. What was odd now was that he wasn’t even angry. No, at least anger would save him from the spear of cold despair that sank deep into his gut and twisted so hard it dropped him to his knees.

            “Asan,” he whispered. Asan’s eyes flickered shut, and he turned away as the Mulli trailed a string of kissed down his neck and chest. Both of them were nude, but Asan was mostly hidden beneath the Mulli’s bulk. Dasaf had hoped that maybe there were simply thrusting against one another, but this was his dream, and he knew that wasn’t true. His mind would never be so kind to him. He knew the Mulli was where Dasaf had not been, because it was not torture enough otherwise.

            Dasaf closed his eyes and hoped that maybe then he could avoid the scene, the slow undulation of the Mulli’s hips and the arch of Asan’s back, but then Asan’s moans filled the room like the hiss of those scorpions, sighs of pleasure so intense to evoke jealousy in even the most skilled of lovers. Even worse, they weren’t just any man’s cries. Asan was so distinct in his sounds because there was no self-consciousness. He couldn’t hear the way he moaned, so whatever sound did emerge was completely pure, unguarded. Sometimes it was loud and triumphant, other times soft like the mewl of a pup. When he quieted now, it was this mewling Dasaf had to listen to, and he couldn’t anymore. So he stood and turned, but the door was gone. Even the scorpions weren’t an option any longer.

            “Stop it,” Dasaf begged, twisting around. “I can’t hear this anymore.”

            Asan was looking at him again, but something had changed. His face sagged with pain, identical to the expression he’d given Dasaf the last time they’d spoken.

            “Raheed not love me like I do him,” Asan said, voice soft and broken, “but I chose a lifetime of that over you.”

            “Stop it,” Dasaf ordered again, voice tinged with anger. He crouched once more, weak in the knees. “Don’t.”

            Asan’s head dropped forcefully back against a cushion as his back arched, crying out once again. Dasaf thought he might have finished, but then he saw red fingers running along Asan’s abdomen. The Mulli pulled back, and there sat a knife deep in Asan’s stomach. But the Mulli was still inside of Asan, and Asan was silent, eyes closed and lips formed around a half-smile of satisfaction.

            Raheed was looking at Dasaf now. The light slipping through the window cast a dark shadow around his face, but Dasaf could see his smile.

            “There is someone who needs me, whose future is undetermined if I’m not set free. Someone helpless without me.”

            “Shut up,” Dasaf demanded.

            “His name is Asan. We was eleven when we met.”

            “Stop.”

            Due to Asan’s position, the blood in his abdomen dribbled down his chest and along his shoulders, pooling in the dip of his collarbone. Still Asan made no move away, and Raheed continued.

            “He told me he wanted to die before I left. To hear such words from someone so young . . . I suppose I decided then that I would change his mind, show him that a life could be full. Then I left.”

            “I should have never let you go,” Dasaf whispered.

             “I would very much love to return to him,” Raheed finished. His eyes flickered down at Dasaf’s lap. “What have you done?”

            Dasaf followed Raheed’s gaze. In his hand, he held the same dagger that had been planted in Asan’s stomach only moments before. Asan’s blood still ran along the blade and across Dasaf’s hand. He dropped it to the floor, but more blood puddled around it, as if the tile itself had been slit.

            “I didn’t . . .”

            Dasaf looked up. Raheed was gone. Now there was only Asan, and he was completely still.

            Dasaf stood and approached the center of the room, heart in his throat. When he finally stood at Asan’s side, he looked down and found Asan’s eyes empty and blank, his body pale as the bleached earth. In a second Dasaf collapsed on top of him, overcome by such agony that the tears burned his cheeks as they fell. He crawled up Asan’s body and pushed the sweat-dampened hair from his face, waiting for life to return to him. As he tried to tuck some hair behind Asan’s right ear, he noticed there _was_ no ear, only a flap of leftover skin and a gory hole.

            _A Darim does not cry_ , Haadi had told him.

            Dasaf lowered his forehead to Asan’s chest and sobbed, just before realizing the sobbing that had brought him here had been his own. 

           

* * *

 

            Raheed woke to a shout of acute pain.

            He jerked awake so violently that his head thumped against the post he was tied to. Wincing, he tried his best to take in his surroundings. He was in a tent, poorly lit and mostly empty. He saw a guard to his left and a guard to his right, but he couldn’t see the person whimpering. He knew it was Asan. Anger exploded inside of him almost as quickly as the pain in his head did.

            “What the fuck is going on?” Raheed snarled. His mouth tasted of vomit and bitter tea. He had been vaguely aware of two days passing, but it had all done so in a haze of scattered thoughts and twisted images. All he could recall was Asan’s arm around him, holding him straight. Had they done the same to Asan? What were they doing to him now?

            “So that is one way to wake you,” said a familiar and malicious voice. Raheed twisted his neck as far as he could manage to watch General Yussam step around the post and into view. Unfortunately, he looked no older or sicker than Raheed recalled. Raheed had hoped that maybe some whore would be paid to poison him too. Unfortunately, Yussam didn’t seem to have the same weaknesses as his predecessor, even if he might have had them elsewhere.

            “Time hasn’t treated you well, has it, Captain Raheed?” Yusaam asked with a smirk. His beard was fuller now, nearly matching that of an Elder or Caliph. “Oh, I forgot. You’re no longer a captain. I should call you Dead Man Raheed. Far more fitting.”

            “Leave Asan alone.”

            Yussam looked past Raheed’s shoulder, so two men shoved Asan into Raheed’s view. His nose was bleeding and his lip was split from what looked like a punch to the face.

            “If you had followed your own advice, you’d still be Captain, wouldn’t you?”

            “Go fuck a goat, you fucking piece of—”

            Someone behind the post draped another piece of rope around Raheed’s neck and yanked backwards. As Raheed’s entire chest and both arms were attached firmly to the post, all Raheed could do was twist his head in his efforts to inhale a slip of air. Only until his body began to seize did the rope loosen, allowing Raheed to breathe.

            Yusaam knelt in front of Raheed, perching an elbow on his raised knee as if addressing a small child. Raheed considered spitting on him, but Yussam took Raheed’s jaw in his hand and held him firmly.

            “A lamb always wails loudest before it’s butchered,” Yussam murmured.

            “Then fucking butcher me and get it over with.”

            “I’d love to. I’d love to slit your throat right now and make your servant watch.” He glanced over at Asan, who looked about as furious as Raheed at the moment. Raheed felt pride at that as well as relief. He could handle Asan’s anger. He couldn’t handle Asan’s fear or pain.

            “But you’re useful to me at the moment, and until that moment has passed, both of us will have to suffer.” Yussam smirked. “Though I imagine your suffering will be far worse.”

            Raheed might have called a bluff for other men, but he knew Yussam. If he said _suffering_ , he would make sure Raheed defined the word at its worst.

            “You can do what you want to me. But let Asan go. He’s had nothing to do with _any_ of this. He is not _bhanak_. He’s allowed to leave the army whenever he choses.”

            “He has also aided in the escape of a traitor, so I am justified in killing him too. Yet he is useful to me as well.”

            “How? He’s just a servant. He doesn’t know—”

            Yussam flicked his knife toward Raheed’s nose, silencing him. “He’s useful in getting _you_ to do what I want.”

            Raheed narrowed his eyes. “What is it that you want?”

            Yussam stood, clucking his tongue. “Learn some patience. For now you and your servant should rest, regain your strength. I imagine you’ll want some more of that tea.”

            “If you give me any more of that tea—”

            “You’ll drink it like a good soldier.” Yussam strode over to Asan, shoving his hand into Asan’s hair and grabbing a fistful of it. “Or maybe I’ll find more creative ways to dispose of your servant than a stoning.” Yussam looked over at his men. “Tie them both up. Make sure neither one sleeps or eats. Maybe that might loosen some tongues.” He jerked his head at Raheed. “Make the servant go thirsty, but supply that one with as much tea as he likes. _More_ tea than he likes.”

            With that, Yussam released Asan and marched out of the tent. Some of his guards went with him, but three stayed to watch Raheed and Asan. Asan was led over to Raheed’s post and forced to sit on the opposite side. This prevented conversation, as Asan could only understand what he could see. It was unfortunate, considering all Raheed wanted to say.

            Raheed refused the tea given to him, but it was forced down his throat like before. This time they gave him so much he vomited on himself, which was only followed by _more_ of the foul stuff. By the time they’d left, Raheed’s throat and lungs were trembling from trauma. Each breath rattled through his chest, and he was sure he was going to be sick again.

            Luckily the pain and worry eventually subsided, and Raheed was floating again, his problems gliding far beneath him.  

           

* * *

 

            They were tied there for two days, granted only brief breaks in which to relieve themselves. Asan wanted to fight, but he was so weak he could barely walk. They refused to give him any water, and he was beginning to develop a sore on his upper thigh because of where he sat all day and all night. He wanted to talk to Raheed, but he could not, not when he couldn’t see him. Besides, they kept Raheed on that tea most of the time, so talking wouldn’t have been of much use anyway. Asan didn’t see the purpose of the tea, but it was going to keep Raheed alive longer than Asan, that was for sure.

            By the third day, they had stopped giving Raheed the tea and they allowed Asan a trickle of water, just enough to tease his thirst but not satiate it. Asan could barely lift  his head in his exhaustion, and his stomach cramped so badly that he wanted death to come sooner rather than later.

            That night, Yussam returned. Even if he’d brought food and water for Asan, Asan would have resented his presence. Yussam ordered a few soldiers to untie Asan and pull him to a stand, but once he was pulled a few strides forward, he was shoved back onto his knees at Yussam’s feet. When Yussam bent, he was holding a bowl of water.

            “You would like this, I’m sure,” he said. He set it on the ground. “You may have it if you drink from it like a dog.”

            With his arms behind his back, Asan resorted to his usual favorite: spitting. He’d improved quite spectacularly since he’d first attempted spitting on Dasaf the day they’d met. This one managed to land just beside Yussam’s boot.

            Yussam struck him, but Asan didn’t even care. He might have laughed if he thought it would make any difference. Then Yussam grabbed a bucket of water one of his men had brought and dumped it on Asan’s head. The water soaked into the parched earth within seconds, and Asan was just as thirsty now as he was before.

            “You’re even worse than before, aren’t you, servant? Elder Hassad might have trained you right, but I can imagine Raheed’s ruined all of that.” Yussam looked past Asan. “Untie him too and bring him here.”

            Moments later, a groggy Raheed was pushed down beside Asan. He looked little better than Asan, and his gaze was not nearly so sharp as Asan was used to. Asan knew it was because of all the tea they’d been forcing on him. His entire face was bathed in sweat, and there was a line of clear snot running down his upper lip. Asan turned away, finding it too difficult to look at him.

            “Let’s have a little chat.” Yussam folded his legs and sat opposite Asan and Raheed, gesturing to one of his men, who brought a hookah and lit it. The smoke was too sweet for regular tobacco. Yussam took a hose and offered it to Raheed.

            “Would you like some, Raheed?”

            Raheed turned away, lips pressed tightly together.

            “Or maybe I will give it to Asan. I’m sure he would like some. I’m sure he’s in a lot of pain at the moment. It might help.”

            Raheed shook his head but said nothing.

            Yussam took a light sip from the hose, then leaned back with a smug grin.

            “I know where you two have been. There is only one place you _could_ have been. If you’d made it to Bhajar, you wouldn’t be on this side of the pass. I imagine the Matij would have murdered you both on sight. I thought the Khamal might have as well, but then again, Khamal has been known to allow _faskii_ servants behind its walls.” He threw a pointed look at Asan. “So this means that at least one of you has some information to tell me.”

            Asan wanted to inform him he’d rather have his tongue cut out, but not only did he not want to give Yussam any ideas, but he thought pretending to be mute could only work in his favor.

             “Come now, don’t be shy. Anyone loyal to the Mulli cause would be honored to tell me what sort of activities those infidels enjoy, perhaps the layout of the city, battle plans?” Yussam waited, looking between them with raised eyebrows. “If you did tell me, I would let you both free. I might even let you back into the ranks, Raheed, if the information you gave was particularly helpful. Don’t you want to put this whole mess behind us?”

            “Neither of us knows anything,” Raheed said finally through clenched teeth. “We were both imprisoned and barely managed to escape.”

            “How? By magic?” Yussam chuckled, inhaling once more on the hookah. “You expect me to believe that? He looks rather well-fed.” Yussam pointed at Asan.

            When neither of them replied, Yussam sighed and waved the hookah away. After a soldier removed it, Yussam leaned forward more intently.

            “I feared it would come to this. But I am a reasonable man. I will give you a chance to see the errors of your decision.” He nodded at Asan, and suddenly Asan was seized by several pairs of hands and dragged forward. Asan fought, but of course it was useless when his hands were bound. They pinned him to the earth with feet on both his neck and back. Someone’s fingers grasped his thumb and jerked it back until it popped. A whine of pain escaped Asan’s lips before he could rein it back.

            “We start with the fingers,” Yussam said just within Asan’s field of vision. “A finger a minute, perhaps? Oh, but that won’t take very long, and what then? Twenty minutes, and we’ll work our way through his toes. Twenty minutes isn’t long either, though. So perhaps we’ll continue with his arms, then his legs. Then his spine.” Yussam smiled, almost as if he were offering a newlywed his congratulations. “Perhaps only then will I consider his neck.”

            Raheed’s expression was twisted into an expression of desperation. “I don’t know anything! I was in a fucking prison cell the whole time! They blindfolded me when they took me out. You think they’re idiots? They wouldn’t give me access to anything important.”

            “So no one ever came to visit?”

            “Just a woman. She didn’t know anything and even if she had, she wouldn’t have told me anything.”

            “And your servant? He was in this cell with you?”

            “Yes.”

            Yussam sighed and nodded at the soldier behind Asan. Asan cried out as they slowly pulled a finger back, only stopping when the bone gave way.

            “You’re lying to me, Captain.”

            “Asan doesn’t know anything. He’s just a servant.”

            “I wonder how your servant will communicate without his fingers, hmm? I imagine that secret language of yours will be useless.”

            “Goddamnit, he doesn’t know anything!”  
            They proceeded to break another of Asan’s finger, this time his pinky. Asan dug his face into the dirt, whimpering. The conversation may have continued, but Asan didn’t see it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The updates from here on will be sporadic. Not only have I caught up to myself writing-wise, I am on vacation and staying with my grandparents, who have no internet. I will try to do my best to deliver, especially considering where I'm leaving this off. :( 
> 
> I hope everyone has happy holidays, despite this story. XD


	28. A Deal

 

            “You should feel lucky that I’m not cutting off his fingers,” Yussam said nonchalantly despite Asan’s muffled cries of pain. Raheed swallowed, his mind trying to find some way. There _had_ to be a way, because the Hahnars weren’t going to run in and save them this time. This was on him.

            Of course he couldn’t give Yussam any information on Khamal. What Raheed knew could surely be of use, especially his journey over the mountain into the city. But Raheed knew—as did Asan—that condemning the city of Khamal and its people to an invasion was not worth the inevitable suffering. Maybe if Yussam had found him a week or two after Raheed’s capture, Raheed would have been willing to give him what little he had known. But even as the temptation to confess dangled in front of him, Raheed imagined Leyla and he found new strength. Sweet, beautiful Leyla. Raheed had no delusions about what would happen to _her_ if any Mulli man got his hands on her.

            Death was the only option, even if it came slowly and painfully.

            “I’m still waiting, Raheed.” Yussam turned to the soldier holding Asan and nodded. Asan screamed this time, and Raheed felt tears push forward. Yussam seemed to know Raheed better than most, and that was the problem. Raheed believed he could withstand torture, but witnessing it from someone else . . . Asan had saved Raheed’s life several times. It was Raheed’s turn now.

            Then—finally!—something began to formulate.

            “I know nothing,” Raheed insisted. When Yussam moved to order another finger broken, Raheed interrupted him. “But the Sumas imprisoned me personally. I talked to him.”

            Yussam paused. “Oh?”

            Raheed nodded. “He hates me, of course. He hates all Mullis. But I _do_ know him. I have spoken with him on several occasions. He—he threw Asan and I both out. His sister had convinced him to let us go.” It was close enough to the truth that Raheed felt comfortable in the lie.

            “His sister.”

            “Yes. She was the woman who tended to me. The Sumas is a brutal man, but he does feel a tenderness toward her, and she can be very cogent. She knew I was no danger to her or Khamal, so she had Asan and I both blindfolded and taken out of Khamal.”

            The story fell from his lips before he could truly formulate it. He tried to remember everything that he said in hopes he wouldn’t screw it up later.

            Yussam spent some time inspecting Raheed, probably trying to decide whether or not to believe Raheed’s story.

            “How did you get those wounds on your face?”

            “My sending away present from the Sumas.” That was the truth at least.

            “Really? He must be a man who likes such gifts.” Yussam turned to one of the soldiers standing behind him, a young soldier with a crooked nose and a barely-healed scar along his upper lip. “He gave this one a Mulli head to bring back to us.”

            The soldier lowered his gaze, eye twitching. Yussam might have felt entirely neutral, but Raheed saw the effect of it on the soldier. Maybe Raheed had underestimated Dasaf’s capability for savagery.

            “I thought the head would be yours,” Yussam said.

            “He was surely tempted.”

            “So you and Asan were imprisoned together.”

            “Yes.”

            “Why? Asan is just a servant. Why would the Sumas think that he posed any danger?”

            “Because the Sumas thinks all _faskiis_ are alike? I don’t know. You’re asking me to translate Hahnar thinking. That is beyond my capabilities.”

            “This woman. What was her name?”

            Raheed didn’t dare hesitate, in fear of being called a liar. “Malika.”

            “The Suman attended to you in a prison cell?”

            Raheed hadn’t planned on Yussam knowing the name of the Suman, but a general about to attack a nation would certainly do his research beforehand. Raheed’s mind raced. “She is a gentle spirit.” It almost burnt his tongue to say it, and inside a snide voice said, _yeah right_.

            “I’ve heard Hahnar women are anything but _gentle_.”

            “I . . . I did manage to woo her a bit.” _If Malika_ or _Leyla ever heard me say this, they’d strangle me_ , Raheed thought. “I am good with women.”

            Yussam observed Raheed a bit longer, then gestured for his men to release Asan. Asan barely moved, only moving his head from the ground to his knees. He was still whimpering in pain.

            “I have no way of verifying that any of this is true, and it does not help me attack a city.”

            “The Khamal made sure that I did not acquire any information to help you attack a city.”

            “How convenient.”

            “I cannot tell you what I don’t know. I know the dungeon was dark and wet, and I know that the one woman who took care of me was sweet and lovely. Outside of that—”

            “You didn’t think to ask her about Khamal?”

            “Like she’d tell me. She was sweet, not _stupid_.”

            “But you _are_ good with women.”

            “Do you want me to show up at the front gates and attempt to seduce her?”

            “I just find it odd that you claim such sway over women but didn’t think to ask a _thing_ about the city, including any ways to escape.”

            “I was ready to die. I thought they were going to execute me. Only after living in that dungeon for what felt like a lifetime did I break down and beg Malika to let me and Asan go. Asan . . . he was in such a state, and she felt pity for him, because he is not even a soldier. He hasn’t done anyone any harm.”

            “Did the Sumas talk to your servant as well?”

            “Uh . . .” Raheed glanced at Asan, who was struggling to right himself. “A bit, but not about anything of importance.”

            Yussam turned to Asan. “What has the Sumas told you about Khamal?”  
            Asan blinked, still breathing harshly. He looked to Raheed, then back to Yussam.

            “He can’t speak,” Raheed said.

            “He can if I ask him to. Go ahead, Asan.” A feline smile crept over his mouth beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “You still have six fingers left to break.”

            “Not . . . good,” Asan finally replied. His pronunciation was about as awful as it had been in the beginning, and Raheed knew it was intentional and not just the result of his treatment. “I no speak.”

            “You do now. Go. Tell me what the Sumas has told you.”

            “Nothing.”

            “I don’t believe that.”

            Asan swallowed loudly. “Sumas . . . say sorry . . . .but he do . . . to protect his people.”

            “Did the Sumas hurt you? Torture you for information, perhaps?”

            “Not every man is like you,” Raheed growled.

            “Every man who wants to _win_ is like me. A shame the Sumas did not take advantage of your knowledge.” Yussam lifted an eyebrow. “You’d think any smart leader would have.”

            Raheed said nothing, and Yussam sighed. He nodded at the man holding Asan’s  next finger, but Raheed stopped them with a cry.

            “Look,” Raheed began with what little confidence he could muster. “I doubt Khamal has enough men to defend itself against an army of your size. Perhaps he will be willing to negotiate a surrender.”

            “Surrender? Khamal? They held out against onslaughts of Hahnars for two fucking centuries, and you think they’re going to cave under a little Mulli pressure?”

            “Isn’t it worth a try?”

            Yussam frowned. “What is it you’re suggesting?”

            “You send any scout over there to negotiate with him and the Sumas will murder him, no doubt. Any man with skin lighter than walnut wood is a walking target to them. But they _know_ me. What if—”

            “You want me to send _you_ to negotiate a surrender?” Yussam laughed. “Oh Raheed, I did not come to be general by being an idiot. You’d run the second I let you leave this tent.”

            Raheed swallowed. There had to be a way. “What if . . . what if you kept Asan as collateral?”

            Raheed hated to offer his servant as a sacrifice, but he took hope in the fact that Yussam did not immediately strike down the offer. In fact, he looked intrigued. If Yussam believed nothing else that Raheed said, he’d believe Raheed would attempt anything to save Asan’s life. He’d already risked desertion and treason.

            “What exactly do you have in mind?” Yussam asked miraculously.

            Raheed ran his tongue along the bottom of his lip, wetting it nervously. “Let me speak with the Sumas. If I don’t return . . . well. You know that if you keep Asan, I’ll return.”

            “Even if you returned to torture and execution?”

            “If you promised to let Asan go.”

            Yussam looked over at Asan, who was staring at Raheed with an expression somewhere between disbelief and anger.

            “Hmm,” Yussam murmured, running his hand along his beard.

            “Raheed . . .” Asan whispered, shaking his head.

            “I have to try,” Raheed told his servant.

            “How touching.” Yussam snorted. “Okay, Raheed, you’ve captured my interest. It isn’t as if you know anything about my camp now that you didn’t know before. You haven’t left the tent, so there’s nothing you could tell the Sumas to doom my army. So I will tell you what you can do.”

            “Anything,” Raheed replied weakly.

            “I will give you a week. It will be three days there, three days back, one day to talk to the Sumas, if you can talk to him at all. I will give you my terms for surrender, and you will discuss it with him and receive his answer. There is no guarantee he will let you live should he reject it, but that is of no matter to me—I plan on executing you anyway. Of course, if you don’t return, I have no reason to believe that you didn’t desert, so understand that no matter what happens—your execution or your desertion—your servant’s life is forfeit.” Yussam smiled pleasantly. “This should give you plenty of incentive to try your hardest to return with his answer, no?”  
            Raheed nodded. He had few doubts that Dasaf would let him leave, not if Asan’s life was at stake. “Of course.”

            “Give me a night to come up with my terms. Tomorrow morning I will send you off.” With a sigh, Yussam pushed himself to a stand, all of his drapery falling down across his legs until only his boots were visible. “But I will tell you now, Raheed. Should you come to me with a surrender, I will release both you and your servant, unharmed. Should you return with a rejection, I will execute you painlessly and let your servant go. And should you never return . . .” At this, a slow smile crossed his features. “If you run or if you are killed, I will take your servant, skin him alive, and use his hide for a new saddle. Then I will feed his naked corpse to the vultures that trail us.” He lifted his eyebrows, his gaze moving between Asan and Raheed. “Do you understand, Captain?”

            Raheed pressed his lips together and nodded. In response, Yussam gathered his cloak around him and marched out of the tent, followed by several of his guards.

           

* * *

 

            “Asan.”

            Asan saw Raheed leaning forward and addressing him. Their hands were still bound behind them, but their feet had been tied to tent posts, giving them the length of their chains to move and adjust their positions. Asan and Raheed were tied to different posts, unfortunately, so it put at least five strides of distance between them. It did give them the opportunity to face one another, but Asan would have preferred sitting back to back. Looking at Raheed was almost as painful as his broken fingers.

            “Asan.”

            Listlessly, Asan glanced up.

            Raheed looked over his shoulder at the guards standing nearby. He said _,_ “I will mouth my words to you.” Asan assumed the words were silent, but they looked like he was speaking them. Clever Raheed. Even now, he was so clever, far more than Asan would ever be. If Asan were more like Raheed, maybe this would have never happened. Maybe Asan could find a way to save Raheed’s life like Raheed was going to save Asan’s.

            “Tomorrow I’ll probably be leaving early,” Raheed mouthed. “Maybe we should say goodbye now.”

            Asan turned away briefly, trying to get his expression under control.

            “You and I both know that Dasaf will never surrender,” Raheed continued. “Nor should he. But I’m doing what I can to save you. You understand that, right?”

            Asan tried to wrap his lips around his reply, but it was difficult. “My fault. We here because of me.”

            “What do you mean?”  
            “If you not save me from stoning—”

            “Asan!” Asan was relatively sure Raheed had said that one out loud, because a guard near the front of the tent glanced back at them. When he returned to his conversation with his fellow soldier, Raheed continued on silently. “Look, I’ve lived my whole life expecting to die young. I’m a soldier. Dying is what we’re meant to do. And this is the best way I can think of to do it—protecting someone I care about.” His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows lifted. “You are a brother to me, Asan. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

            Asan fought back tears. He was hungry and thirsty and in pain, and on top of all of it, he was going to lose Raheed. _Again_. There was no Leyla or Fasa to save him this time. Why did everyone hate the man that Asan loved so much? Why couldn’t Asan protect him?

            “Don’t, Asan.” Raheed smiled sadly. “It’s alright.”

            Asan shook his head, miserable.

            “I wouldn’t have survived beyond the mountain anyway. How could I possibly live? I have no trade, and if anyone saw my brand, they’d execute me. You though. You are useful, and I know that wherever you go after this, you’ll be just fine.”

            _No I won’t_ , Asan thought. He was never fine without Raheed. The only thing that had kept him sane all those years with Elder Hassad and at the quarry had been thoughts of Raheed and the belief that he’d come back one day. Asan couldn’t imagine a life without that promise of Raheed’s return. He wouldn’t go back to what he was: a stupid beggar boy living between beatings. He’d rather die.

            “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid after I come back,” Raheed mouthed. “Promise me you’ll head beyond the mountain where you’ll be safe.”

            Asan couldn’t promise that. He wouldn’t.

            “I want to die knowing you’ll be okay.” Raheed’s expression was pleading now, his eyes stretched wide. “I have to know that or else I’ll . . . Just promise me.”

            Asan couldn’t say no to Raheed. He never had that ability. So he nodded and mouthed, “I promise.”

            “Thank you.” Raheed leaned back, his head thunking against the post. When his eyes drifted shut, Asan watched him sleep for a moment, filled with such sorrow that his eyes grew moist. Even scarred, hungry, and exhausted from too much opium tea, he was so handsome. He was perfect in absolutely every way, and Asan knew that if Yussam returned now offering Raheed’s life for Asan’s, Asan would agree to it. If only they were allowed a moment to embrace, Asan could burn his scent to memory, the strength of his shoulders, the way the right side of his mouth lifted slightly higher than the left when he smiled.

            “Raheed,” Asan said aloud, half-mad with grief.  

            Raheed’s eyes flickered open, though he still looked groggy and only barely conscious.

            “I love you,” Asan mouthed, though he felt an occasional vibration in his throat. He was so distraught that silence wasn’t his highest priority. “I always have, more than anything in the world. Not as a brother, but . . .” Asan felt hot tears run down his dirty cheeks, but he couldn’t stop them. “I just love you.”

            Raheed stared at him a moment, looking more forlorn than surprised. Finally a hint of a smile touched his lips, the kind that lifted the right side of his mouth higher than the left.

            “Raheed?” Asan wasn’t sure if he understood.

            “Like I loved Malli?” Raheed replied after a long silence.

            “More,” Asan answered.

            The smile died on Raheed’s lips, but he did not seem angry or upset like Asan expected. Instead his face became burdened with such heavy sadness that Asan wondered if Raheed was in pain. “I am sorry, Asan,” he said, his lips barely moving. “I’m so sorry.”

            Asan sobered and nodded, pushing back tears.

            It was the answer he had always expected.

 

* * *

 

            The desert was cold, but Malika knew it was not the only reason for her chill. The further they marched away from the protective shadow of Khamal walls, the more danger crept along behind them. Even though the Mullis threatened Khamal, there were other things to fear in the desert, only one of which was the Matij. If the snakes and scorpions weren’t an enemy, the occasional bandit or cutthroat was. They were guarded by some of Khamal’s best, but Malika would have liked to sleep with one eye open, just in case.

            “Mama?”

            The wind was fierce tonight, pulling at the caftan around Malika’s legs and the cloak about her shoulders. It nearly drowned out the sound of her son’s imploring voice behind her. Soon he as at her side, carrying himself in a way that struck her as unfamiliar. He was trying so hard to be a grown man. He was still a tad shorter than her and thin as a reed, nothing any Matij chief would cower before. But Haadi had been a boy once as well, and boys who controlled armies were more dangerous than any single man with a sword.

            “Why are you out here?” Altaf asked. “You’re making Ibahn nervous, wandering so far from the others.”

            “I wanted to look at the desert,” Malika replied, folding her arms over her chest. She narrowed her eyes, peering into the darkness. “I also don’t want the others to see me look worried.”

            Altaf glanced over his shoulder at the makeshift tents the others had erected. A few of the night watches were talking in low voices, but outside of that, all was silent. “They look more worried than you.”

            “They aren’t Suman.”

            Altaf was silent. Malika knew it wasn’t her job to be the stoic one. A woman’s emotions were less policed than those of a man, but Malika would not forget the lessons Haadi had taught her. Indifference had been the only way to survive that marriage, because the moment she let anger or frustration slip, Haadi won. He battled not with rage but with a dearth of it, and it was an opponent Malika had never dealt with. As she looked out across the dry earth, the desert reminded her of her late husband: empty, cold, parched of anything that supported life. And within the darkest nooks hid the hardiest, most poisonous creatures, waiting to be discovered.

            “If the Matij do not help us,” Altaf said eventually, “do I still have to marry Ultar’s daughter?”

            “It would be a big enough offense that I think it’s possible.”

            “Oh.”

            “Of course, if the Matij do not help, it could mean Khamal’s destruction. At that point, the last thing I’m worried about is some chief’s daughter.”

            When she glanced at Altaf, he looked alarmed and devastated. She thought of ignoring it or even chastising him. A Sumas could not afford to be so transparent with his emotions. But he was also her son, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to imitate Haadi’s behavior. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it softly.

            “They will help,” Malika murmured before pulling her hand away, “because you ask them to.”

            “How? I am not Uncle Dasaf, Mama.”

            “You should not be like your uncle. You should be Darim Altaf, future Sumas of Khamal. When you are with Jakil Ultar, never forget that. You come from much stronger and fiercer men. They fought and died so that you could stand here, and I want you to feel their spirits with you when you speak to Ultar. Let them give you a voice, and they will make sure it does not waver.”

            “What if Jakil Ultar just sees a boy?”

            “Then he is a fool.” Malika sighed. “Though you are right. No matter your eloquence, Jakil Ultar is a man who only respects experience and savagery. In that case, make it clear that without Khamal, he has no one to trade his stolen goods with. Where will the grain come from? The fruit he so enjoys? All is grown in Khamal, and without it he and his people will be eating snake meat and goat until the Hahnars realize how vulnerable they are without Khamal’s protection.”

            “The Hahnars could destroy the Matij?”

            “They could. The Matij are nomads. Fierce, yes, but the Hahnars are warriors with swords and shields. The Matij have only what they’ve stolen from the Hahnars and Mullis.” She turned to him. “But make sure not to insinuate that the Hahnars could ever defeat the Matij. That will offend Jakil Ultar. However, you can always imply that they will attack, and that is the last thing Jakil Ultar wants, especially when they’re so occupied raiding Mulli troops.”

            “What if he laughs at me? What if he thinks I am nothing more than a silly child?”

            “Tell him that you may be young but that you command the army that stands between Jakil Ultar and twenty-five thousand Mullis. He will see the truth in _that_.”

            Altaf nodded. “I will do my best, Mama. For Khamal, for Uncle Dasaf, for my father, and for you.”

            Malika reached up and placed a hand on his cheek. Her chest swelled with pride, because despite all of her mistakes, she knew she’d raised a Sumas to the best of her ability. He was not an iron warrior, but he was brave and he had goodness in his heart that could not be denied. She gave Dasaf a great deal of grief, but he too had aided in the molding of this young man, and Malika saw more of Altaf’s uncle in him than his father.

            Altaf wandered back to the camp, and Malika watched him, pulling her veil tighter around her neck as the wind tugged it. After Altaf ducked into a tent, she turned her gaze back to the desert and the sky that soared above it, a billion stars scattered along a vast black canvas. She remembered looking at these stars with her sister the night before her wedding. Malika had been so nervous, so excited, so young. When she asked Leyla if Haadi would grow to love her like Mother had said, Leyla answered only with, _I hope so_. Malika had wished on the brightest star that night, wished that her new husband would fall in love with her and give her healthy, happy children that they could cherish together. Malika looked for that star tonight, wondering if it had vanished along with all of the other hopes she’d had for Haadi, her marriage, and her children. But at last she found it just beside the moon, glittering now as it always had. Maybe it was foolish to wish upon it again, especially considering the failure of her last. Yet it couldn’t hurt, so she indulged the young girl inside of her and made a wish. _Look over and protect my people_ , she thought. _Keep my son and my brother safe and guide them to victory. May Khamal stand until the sky rains fire and the sun turns to dust._

With a sigh, Malika drew her cloak tighter around her and returned to her tent.

           

* * *

 

            Raheed didn’t sleep much, and he knew Asan hadn’t either. When Yussam returned at dawn, Raheed had steeled himself in preparation.

            “Untie him,” Yussam ordered his men, pointing at Raheed. “Get him some travel clothes and a horse.”

            There was a flurry of activity, and Raheed was pulled to his feet, the manacles on his wrists and ankle opened. A heavy cloak was dumped at his feet, and he struggled to put it on before someone else could force him into it. They provided a shemagh scarf as well, along with several canteens of water to fasten around his waist. Of course they gave him no sword nor arrow, so if bandits came along he’d have only his bare hands to protect himself.

            “I would hate to throw our visitor into the desert without being properly groomed.” Yussam waved at his servant, a small boy that lingered at the edge of his shadow most of the time. Raheed hated to look at him, because the boy reminded him of what Asan had been years ago, back when he’d found him at that quarry. This boy had nothing but bones poking through his skin and fear running rampant in his huge dark eyes. A soldier shoved Raheed to his knees, and the servant boy brought both a blade and some soap. Raheed was confused for only a moment until the boy slathered the soap across Raheed’s jaw and upper neck. The blade was sharp enough that it only took a few strokes until Raheed’s face was entirely bare, the first time he’d been beardless since he’d been a foot soldier in the Hahnar Mountains with General Mamid.

            “A much better look for you,” Yussam said with a sneer. “What a pretty servant you make, eh?”

            Raheed couldn’t conjure up enough energy for anger. He really didn’t care. In the scheme of all that had gone wrong, being reduced to servant status was not as humiliating as it might have once been. Asan had saved Raheed’s life, had cared for him and doted on him and protected him, all while being a servant. Servitude was not lowly or embarrassing. It was God’s work, and Asan was a better and stronger man than most soldiers could ever hope to be.

            “Oh, and Raheed? I’ve actually changed my mind about the deal I made last night. I know how little value you place on your life, and I want Khamal to surrender more than I want any battle. So here.” Yussam bent low to give Raheed the rolled parchment in his hand. “New terms.”

            Raheed pulled the parchment open, quickly reading the terms. Much of it was detail about a surrender, but at the very bottom Raheed caught the most important part:

            _If a surrender is not made by the end of the week on which this document is received, the former captain Raheed and his servant Asan will be executed upon their return to camp_.

            “You . . . you said you’d save his life.”

            “And kill you, yes. But you are a soldier, and soldiers care so little for their own lives. You’d never beg for a surrender just to save your own sorry life. So here is my deal. If you don’t return, I kill your servant, but slowly and painfully as possible. If you do return, I execute you both by a simple beheading. No pain, nothing drawn out. You can even hold hands if you like, since you seem to love each other so much. The only way to save your servant’s life is by bringing the Sumas to me, as per the terms. Also, don’t bother bringing me some Hahnar you _claim_ is the Sumas, because I have a man who knows his face.” Yussam jerked a head at one of the guards, the one with the crooked nose. “If you bring me the wrong man, I will torture you _both_. Maybe I’ll have you kill your servant. Or maybe something else. There are so many options. We’d have all the time in the world to explore them.”

            “I . . .” Raheed’s tongue had trouble functioning. He looked at Asan, who was forced to stand facing the opposite direction. He had no idea.

            “Agree to it. If not, I torture you both. After all, Asan has many more fingers and toes for my men to break.”

            Raheed swallowed the thick saliva in his throat. Dasaf would never surrender, even for Asan. But what else could he do? He wasn’t surprised that Yussam had changed their deal. Expecting him to stay true to his word was asking too much. Then again, what promise was there that he’d let any of them live, or kill them kindly? Maybe Yussam would torture them no matter what Raheed did.

            Raheed was completely at Yussam’s mercy. But he had to try.

            “I agree,” Raheed murmured. “If you promise not to hurt Asan while I’m away.”

            “I don’t think you’re in the position to make me promise anything, Raheed.” Yussam moved past Raheed and grabbed Asan, spinning him around to face them both. “Then again, I can always use a servant. Maybe he’ll work for me while you’re gone.”

            Asan’s eyes sought Raheed’s, but Raheed couldn’t manage to meet them. Not when he had failed so miserably.

            “Do you like him without his beard, servant?” Yussam asked, taking Asan’s chin in his hand. “I think with a little bit of kohl around the eyes and some gold trinkets, he’d made a fine whore.”

            Asan’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

            “The Hahnars do like their male whores.” Yussam turned to one of the men nearby. “Give me your dirk.”

            “What are you doing?” Raheed asked, panicking.

            A dirk was handed to Yussam, and he pressed the tip against Asan’s cheek, forcing his head to the side. “This skin is a perfect shade for a saddle, don’t you think, Raheed? It would go well with my red bridle.”

            “I’ll bring the Sumas to you,” Raheed said in a broken voice.

            “Will you? You could be lying. You’ve always been so cunning. It’s why Mamid promoted you. Unfortunately, that’s not going to work with me. The men I promote are men who follow orders.”

            “I can do that.”

            “Prove it to me, and then I will believe you. In the meantime, perhaps I will give you a reminder of what happens to cunning soldiers.” Yussam grabbed a handful of Asan’s hair, jerking his head backward. With a clean swipe of the dirk, he carved off Asan’s right ear so quickly that by the time Raheed had truly registered what had happened, the ear had fallen to Yussam’s feet and blood coursed down Asan’s neck in a heavy stream. Asan screamed until Yussam shoved him down to the ground. Asan struggled to right himself, but several men rushed forward and grabbed him, holding him down.

            Raheed stepped forward, but Yussam lifted his sword, as did all the soldiers standing near Raheed. When Yussam was confidant Raheed would not attack, he bent down and picked Asan’s ear off the ground, intact save the small flap of skin at the bottom.

            “It’s not so bad,” Yussam said as Raheed forced very muscle still in fear he’d lash out and do something he’d regret. “It’s not like he uses it anyway.”

            “You son of a—”

            “Ah, ah. I’d keep your mouth shut, Raheed, if you want me to let you prove yourself at all. I can just torture and kill you both now.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Would you like that?”

            “You said you wouldn’t hurt him.”

            “Oh, I never said that. But I’ll promise you now that I’ll let him keep his other ear if he’s a good boy from now until you return.”

            “At least give him something to stop the bleeding.”

            Yussam sighed, as if it were all such a terrible burden. He gestured to his servant, and the boy reached forward to press a cloth to Asan’s bleeding head. Asan struggled to sit, though several spears were kept pointed at him in fear he’d retaliate.

            “There now, no harm done.” Yussam bent down and burrowed through a saddlebag until he came upon a small box. He opened it and dropped the ear inside before clasping it shut.

            “A reminder,” Yussam said ominously before handing the box to a soldier. “Put this in Raheed’s saddlebag. I’m sure he’ll want to ruminate upon it.”

            The soldier did as he was asked.

            “Take those terms I’ve written and keep them close, Raheed. They’re going to be the only thing that’ll save your servant’s life.”

            Raheed wasn’t given a chance to say goodbye. Before he could so much as catch Asan’s gaze, he was shoved out of the tent and toward two large donkeys, which were tacked up and waiting for him.

            “Donkeys?” Raheed asked stupidly.

            “Servants don’t deserve horses,” Yussam said with a laugh. “I’m sure you’ll get along just perfectly.”

            Someone pushed Raheed from behind, forcing him to stumble forward. After regaining his balance, he gathered his robes around him and climbed atop the sturdier donkey. Many of the soldiers around him laughed, one of them Uthal. Raheed looked for a friendly face and found none. These people were not his anymore. Asan was the only one left.

            Frowning, Raheed kicked his donkey. At first it did not want to move, but when he used a leather strap to swat its rump, it took off at a quick jog. The donkey behind it reluctantly followed, the water it carried splashing loudly. As they had been stationed near the edge of the camp, it did not take long to reach open desert. When he looked back, he saw several cavalry watching him, making sure he went in the right direction. Mulli tents stretched out as far as he could see, telling him what he already knew.

            Forcing panic beneath the surface, Raheed turned back to the empty horizon and urged his donkey forward. 


	29. An Answer

 

            Even though there was little moonlight, the Matij scorpion pin seemed to glow. Raheed turned it over and over in his hands, hoping it might inspire some sort of revelation or miracle. But after a few minutes, he decided it was nothing more than some trinket. It was almost as useless as he was at the moment.

            Raheed stood and threw it as hard as he could into the darkness. The desert was so quiet that he heard it land about forty strides away.

            “Fat lot of good you’ve done!” he shouted at it. He knew how crazy he sounded, but he didn’t care. He kicked at a nearby rock and sent it shooting in a similar direction. “Fuck you, you stupid fucking Hahnars. You and the Mulli can all go fuck yourselves!”

            Only silence answered him. When he looked over his shoulder, one of the donkeys had turned her enormous ears in his direction.

            “What’s your fucking problem?” Raheed snapped at her.

            She turned away, once again disinterested.

            Raheed ran his hands over his face, a laugh pushing against his lips. “Dear God, I’m yelling at a fucking donkey.” His laugh turned into a sob, and then he began to cry. At first it started out halted and slow, but then he collapsed in a heap and wept harder than he had since he was a boy. Never had he felt so helpless. He had trained almost his whole life to be a protector and now what? At least before he’d been protecting Asan. Asan had been his purpose when the Mulli Empire no longer concerned him. He’d failed at that purpose, and that purpose had been greater than all of those before it. For years he’d been brainwashed into fighting for an empire that cared about as much about him as they did the Hahnars they killed. He had promised to die for the Mullis, but why? What had they ever promised him? Gold and whores. That’s what he had promised to die for. Well, gold bought him whores, and whores cared for him as much as the Mulli army did. When asked to chose between gold and Raheed, Malli chose gold.

            Asan had never asked for gold. Asan was the only person who ever cared about Raheed, and Raheed had failed him. Dasaf would never surrender, and Raheed would have to return only so that he and Asan would be granted a dignified death.

            What was truly burned into Raheed’s memory was Asan’s expression the night before, when they faced each other and Asan told Raheed he loved him.

            _Like I loved Malli_?

            _More_.

            Raheed pressed his fingers into his eyes, hoping it might stem the flow. God. How could he be so stupid?

 

* * *

 

            “I’m not going.”

            “Of course you are.”

            “I’m not _running_.”

            “Leyla, this is _non-negotiable_.”

            Leyla pulled herself taller, but of course she’d never be as tall as Dasaf. “I’m not going to run off like some coward.”

            “This isn’t about bravery, this is about _reason_. There is no reason why you should stay here when you’d be safer elsewhere.”

            “If it comes to battle, you will need someone good with remedies.”

            “We will find someone else.”

            “Why? Why can’t I stay?”

            Dasaf took both of Leyla’s arms in a firm grip. “Because you are my sister. Because I love you and I can’t concentrate on defending my city when I’m worried about _you_.”

            “I don’t see why I should get special treatment. It’s not as if I have children who depend on me. Malika gets to do her part. Why do I have to sit in a hole and wait for Mullis to conquer my city? I’m not being foolish or brave, I’m being _reasonable_. I know remedies, and where there are battles there are men who need remedies.”

            “You don’t know battle. You’ve never seen it. You know how to fix colds and achy bones and the occasional injury, but you don’t know what battle looks like.”

            Leyla’s resolve was not weakened. “I can do it.”

            “If they take the city—”

            “They won’t.”

            Dasaf growled in his throat. “They could, Leyla! We must entertain that possibility! If they take the city and you’re here—you don’t know Mullis. They won’t kill you like they’d kill me. They’d do the same thing to you that they did to my mother, and I won’t allow that!” He inhaled sharply and looked away. “I won’t allow that.”

            There was a long silence, because while Leyla wasn’t afraid of death, she was afraid of pain, of humiliation, of libidinous Mulli men who wanted Hahnar women to conquer. Yet she couldn’t let herself be thwarted. Her people needed her, and very few women outside of her mother were as knowledgeable about healing as Leyla.

            “I would like to stay,” Leyla said softly. “If I sense the battle is going poorly, I can run.”        

            “You won’t.”

            “I promise I will.”

            Dasaf shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

            Perhaps he was right not to. She couldn’t leave the city without knowing the outcome, especially if Dasaf was still in danger. They weren’t siblings by blood, but Leyla felt as fiercely protective of him as she did her real sister. She knew he was a brutal warrior, but she’d always remember him as the awkward yet well-meaning boy she’d met before Malika’s wedding.

            There was a knock on the door.

            “What?” Dasaf asked, his voice turned cold. Each day seemed to turn his mood darker, and even Leyla, who had never feared him, began to waver under his gaze.

            A guard peeked into the room. “Sumas, there is a man needing to speak to you.”

            “It can wait.”

            “No, Sumas, I don’t think it can.” When Dasaf inhaled to tell him off, the guard quickly followed with, “He is Mulli. His name is Raheed.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Raheed was afraid he would be followed, so he didn’t take the route over the mountain like he had on his way out of Khamal. Instead he headed for the front gate, the most dangerous route but the least likely to lead any Mulli scouts to secret entrances. With his donkeys, Raheed certainly did not make an intimidating figure, but he knew that his skin color would be enough of a reason for the Hahnars to murder him. He planned his approach carefully, untying his white shemagh and wrapping it around the donkey’s ear, the best flag of surrender he could manage with his limited tools.

            The front gate of Khamal was probably one of the reasons most enemies thought twice before invading. Even Ayllamals gates were about half the size, the walls about half as thick. It rose up about five stories above him, topped with sharp crenellations and guarded by fat towers on each side, towers Raheed assumed were armed with enough ballistas to take a horde down within minutes. Khamal was unique in that it was built within a basin, so mountains rose up where the walls did not, creating a landscape not easy to navigate even in the best of circumstances.

            Raheed had barely touched the shadow of the Khamal gates when several arrows rained down, nearly taking out his donkey. The donkey balked and spun away, but as donkeys were not so easily spooked as horses, he was able to get her under control before she spilled him.

            After the first barrage of arrows, there was nothing. No one called out asking for his business, and no riders came out to greet him. He didn’t really need anything else, because the arrows were enough: _go away_.

            Raheed dismounted his donkey. He wasn’t sure if what he shouted could be heard from here, but he had to try, since clearly no one was going to be coming for him.

            “ _I come from the Mulli army!_ ” Raheed called. “ _I have brought terms from the general and would like to bring him yours_!”

            Raheed waited.

            It seemed to take forever, but at last the gate opened just enough to allow a few men on horseback through. To be safe, Raheed dropped to his knees and waited. When at last the shadows of the horses and their riders fell over him, Raheed found half of the riders’ bows notched and aimed at him. The other half held spears.

            A Hahnar on a dapple said something to him in Hahnar, but Raheed didn’t understand it.

            “Sumas Dasaf,” Raheed answered, hands held above his shoulders.

            The men laughed, and when the Hahnar spoke again, it was in such a tone that even Raheed understood the answer: _yeah right_.

            Raheed slowly reached for the terms that Yussam had given him, but stopped when the spears pointed at him swung forward.

            “I’m just getting a piece of paper.”

            The spears were not removed.

            “Look,” Raheed said, annoyed, exhausted, and completely out of options. “I just need a _minute_ , okay? You can tie me up and beat the shit out of me for all I care, but I need to talk to Dasaf.”

            The Hahnar who had been on the dapple withdrew his scimitar from its sheath and began to walk forward.

            “Stop!” Raheed pleaded, only to be ignored.

            “ _Mudihai!”_

            The man with the sword halted then and turned. A man on a black stallion trotted toward them, his beige cloak swirling around him. Perhaps Raheed should have been thankful for his order, but upon recognizing the figure, Raheed wondered if this encounter was going to get him killed even faster.

            The men stepped aside and let Shallaf and his horse move to the front of the group. Shallaf didn’t even bother to dismount; he could look down his nose at Raheed just fine from atop his stallion.

            “Why have you come, Mulli dog?” Shallaf asked sharply. Raheed hadn’t thought it possible to see more hatred in a look than what Yussam could manage, but Shallaf might have had the man beat.

            “I’ve come to deliver surrender terms from the Mulli army.”

            More than anger flashed across Shallaf’s face. “The Mulli army?” At this, he reached for his sword and unsheathed it with a scowl. “What did you tell them, you worm?”

            “Nothing.”

            Shallaf barked an order to his men, and they surged forward, grabbing Raheed and dragging him to a stand. Someone looped the curve of his sword across Raheed’s throat, the blade resting so close to his skin that he could feel a sting of pain.

            “I’m telling the truth!” Raheed said, the vibration of his voice forcing the blade deeper into his throat.

            “I believe we owe you a beheading, Mulli dog.”

            “Let me talk to Dasaf! I have something very important—”

            “You have ten seconds to tell me what you’ve confessed to the Mulli army before I destroy you.”

            “I didn’t tell them anything!”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            “You’d think I’d be tempted, considering how _hospitable_ you’ve all been to me.”

            “Seven seconds.”

            “If you kill me—”

            “Six seconds.”

            “Would you just let—”

            “Five.”

            “Asan’s in trouble, goddamnit!”

            That gave Shallaf pause. Raheed didn’t know how much Shallaf knew Asan, if at all. Clearly the name was familiar to him, so Raheed rushed to elaborate.

            “If you kill me, Asan dies a long and horrible death. I’m sure you don’t care, the charmer you are, but I think Dasaf might.”

            The flash of emotion that had crossed Shallaf’s face was locked down behind a wall of indifference. “The Sumas won’t know anything I don’t tell him.”

            “Some loyal subject you are.”

            “The Sumas is fighting a war. He has more concerns than what happens to a Mulli dog and his crippled slave.”

            Raheed winced. “I just came from the Mullis. I can give you information—”

            “No.” Shallaf frowned. “You think you are clever, Mulli? Did you bring spies with you? Are they watching us right now?”  
            Raheed would have thrown something at the man if he’d been able. If he weren’t so blinded by hatred and prejudice, he might see an opportunity arriving. At this moment, Raheed almost hated Hahnars as much as he hated the Mullis. Couldn’t anyone just _listen_ for once?

            “They shaved my face. They gave me donkeys. I have no weapons. All I carry are the terms of surrender from the Mulli army.”

            “Well then perhaps we can send you back with an answer.”

            “Please, Shallaf.” Perhaps humility would touch this man’s black heart. “Please, just give me a moment with Dasaf. Not for me. I’m a dead man anyway. Asan and I were headed for the mountains when we were overtaken by the Mullis and made prisoners. I’m not doing this for the Mullis. Fuck the Mullis. I agreed to come here with these terms for Asan and Asan only.”

            There was a long silence as Shallaf regarded him coldly. Finally he said something to the man holding a sword to Raheed’s throat, and the blade was removed. Rough hands forced his arms behind him and tied them while someone draped a dark cloth around Raheed’s eyes, blinding him.

            Raheed didn’t know if he was being led to Dasaf or another dark dungeon, but he had to hope.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf was led to the small private room where his advisors had been meeting over the past few days to discuss strategy. It was empty now except for a few soldiers, Shallaf, and the Mulli, who was bound, blindfolded, and forced to kneel in the center.

            “Out,” Dasaf barked at the soldiers. They shuffled out until only Shallaf remained.

            Dasaf hadn’t realized Leyla had been following, so he hadn’t been expecting to be shoved aside so she could rush to the center and kneel at the Mulli’s side.

            “Leyla!” Dasaf snapped, but she ignored him by untying the blindfold and tenderly removing it.

            “Are you okay?” Leyla asked softly in Aillic.

            “Leyla?” Raheed whispered. He had the nerve to look hopeful.

            “What is the meaning of this?” Dasaf asked Shallaf.

            “He showed up at the front gate and said he’s come from the Mulli army. I thought he might have information that could be helpful.”

            “The Mulli army?”  
            “He says he hasn’t told them anything, but you know how much I trust a Mulli.” To prove his point, Shallaf spit at the Mulli’s feet, missing him by just a breath.

            Dasaf strode forward and grasped Leyla’s shoulder, but she shook him off, whipping around to glare at him.

            “This is not the time to be proud and stubborn!” she growled. “This is a time for reason, and I fear you have none of that in regards to Raheed.”

            Dasaf’s gaze traveled from Leyla to the Mulli, who had the nerve to look sheepish. There was a few days worth of beard along his jaw, but outside of that, he didn’t look terribly bedraggled. Dasaf had been so occupied with the Mull invasion that he hadn’t much time to think about the Mulli, but now that he was facing him, he felt the old rage return.

            “Where is Asan?” Dasaf asked first, since that question seemed the most important.

            “Asan and I met up after my escape,” the Mulli explained. “But we were captured by Mulli soldiers on our journey to the mountains. They imprisoned both of us, and Asan is still there.”

            “You left him?”

            “I had to. I was told I could save his life if I did.”

             “What do you mean?”

            “Can you untie me?”

            “I could behead you.”

            “You wouldn’t want that. If I don’t return within four days, they’ll torture Asan before they kill him. Yussam mentioned needing a new hide for his saddle.”

            This was what pierced through Dasaf’s anger. He looked over his shoulder at Shallaf.

            “Leave,” he said.

            “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone with _him_.”

            “I think I can manage, Shallaf. Out. Now.”

            Shallaf glared at him for a moment, then finally bowed his head and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

            “You too, Leyla.”

            “Why should I?”

            “Damnit, Leyla, am I not Sumas today? I won’t tolerate any more arguments!”

            She held his gaze for a few moments, as if waiting for him to back down. He did not. Sniffing with disdain, she stood.

            “You won’t hurt him, Dasaf.”

            Dasaf said nothing. With a sigh, she stepped out of the room, but not before throwing one last heartfelt look at the Mulli.

            “The only reason I haven’t killed you already is because of Asan. I want that known.”

            The Mulli nodded in understanding, then stood slowly, as if afraid Dasaf might cut him down for it. “I know. Honestly, if it weren’t for Asan, I might ask you to kill me. Unfortunately, I was told that if I didn’t return with your reply, Asan would suffer.”

            “My reply?”  
            The Mulli reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a cylinder container. From inside he withdrew a piece of parchment, which he handed to Dasaf.

            “These are Mulli’s terms of surrender.”

            Dasaf glanced at it but did not take it. “I would never consider such a thing, even if they promised us a mountain of gold.”

            “I know.”

            “Then why even bother coming?”

            “I thought I could use it to bargain for Asan’s life.” The Mulli looked away. “I wasn’t exactly successful.”

            “What does that mean?”  
            “It means if I don’t secure a surrender, both Asan and I will be executed. If I return, Yussam at least promised to do it quickly and painlessly. If I don’t . . . well, I don’t even dare imagine what Yussam would do to Asan.”

            “Yussam is . . .”

            “The general. General Mamid is dead.”  
            Dasaf had no reply. A vision of Asan rose so quickly in his mind, that subdued smile that lived more in his eyes than on his lips. He chased it away, because the pain was too great. He could barely comprehend what the Mulli was telling him. Certainly it had to be some cruel joke— a Mulli plot.

            “I have no reason to believe you,” Dasaf said stiffly. “Why would the Mullis want to hurt Asan?”

            “Because they want to hurt _me_. I deserted them.”

            “Seems like so much effort for a mere captain in an army that size.” Dasaf shook his head. “No. I will not fall for Mulli tricks.”

            “You really think I would lie about this? About Asan?”

            “You have shown the propensity to lie before this.”

            “I didn’t _lie_ about anything!”

            “I cannot trust a Mulli dog.”

            “You are—just listen to me! This isn’t about Mullis or Hahnars or the war. This is about Asan. I can’t save him, but I can at least spare him some suffering.”

            “You are telling me this to save your own life. You knew that if you came back here we’d kill you, that the only thing that might keep you alive is lies about Asan—”

            “You don’t believe me? You really want me to _prove_ this to you?” the Mulli snarled. “Fine. You asked for it. I thought you might be like this, so I brought this for you.”

            The Mulli reached beneath his cloak and untied a small box that had been hanging there. It was this box that he extended to Dasaf.

            “Open it,” the Mulli said.

            “No.”

            “It’s not a snake or a scorpion.”

            Dasaf glared at the Mulli, but the Mulli glared back, arm still extended. Finally Dasaf took the box and unfastened the latch. When he saw what was inside, he dropped it with a surprised yelp. Seconds later, he shoved the Mulli against a wall and held a dirk to his throat.

            “ _What sort of cruel trick is this_?” he snapped.

            “No trick,” the Mulli replied quietly. “I only kept it because I feared you wouldn’t believe me.”

            Dasaf held the Mulli’s gaze, hoping he might waver. But the longer Dasaf looked into those eyes, the more convinced he was that the Mulli really was serious. The anger faded, replaced by panic. He stumbled backward, dropping his dirk and releasing the Mulli from his hold.

            “That ear could be anyone’s,” Dasaf whispered, even if he did not believe it. His dream returned to him in vivid color: Asan lying dead, Dasaf hovering above, a gory hole bleeding on the side of Asan’s head where an ear should be . . .

            “Yussam did this,” the Mulli said. “If you want to hate a Mulli, hate _him_.”

            “Why would they do this? What has Asan done?”

            The Mulli’s expression was grave. “Nothing. They’re doing it to manipulate me. There’s nothing you can say or do to make me feel more guilty than I already do, so I wouldn’t bother.”

            It was a good thing there was nothing nearby that Dasaf could throw, because he might have overturned several pieces of furniture by now had he the chance.

            “There must be some way to save him.”

            “He’s in a tent surrounded by twenty-five thousand Mulli soldiers. If you have any ideas, I’d like to hear them.”

            Dasaf frowned. “Why did they send _you_? Why not Asan?”

            “Yussam thinks I have some sort of relationship with you, enough that you’d be willing to speak with me instead of cutting me down like you would any other man. I was able to convince him that Asan and I were imprisoned together, that Asan can’t speak, and that Asan knew even less than I did.”

            Dasaf crossed the room, folding one arm over his chest in order to prop up the other. He chewed on the tip of his thumb and stared through the window as he thought.

            “If he did know about Asan—”

            “If he knew that Asan has spent months running around the alcazar, he’d be torturing Asan beyond what he’s already done. The one advantage of Asan’s handicap is that men underestimate him. They think he’s simple, so they don’t bother to look past the surface.”

            Dasaf began to pace, raking through his mind in hopes he’d come across something genius. But the Mulli was right—what could he do when twenty-five thousand men surrounded Asan? His head knew it was hopeless, but his heart refused to believe it. He’d seen Asan so recently. Funny how death was so hard to comprehend when memories were so fresh. He had wandered the halls for weeks after his mother’s death, waiting to hear her laugh to permeate through the walls as it always did. Likewise, he expected to see Asan in empty corridors, his expression distant and mysterious.

            Dasaf reached out and grabbed the ledge of a windowsill, pulling out of the whirlpool taking him to depressing depths. He couldn’t afford to think about Asan or his terrible fate right now, not when there was a city to protect. Whatever despair he felt crawling up his throat had to be pushed down deep where he couldn’t reach it.

            “There’s nothing I can do,” Dasaf said, looking through the window lattice to scene in the alcazar plaza, where several soldiers on horseback had gathered. Whatever they were discussing, their expressions were intense.

            “I know,” the Mulli said, his voice sounding very far away.

            Dasaf inhaled sharply and turned. “I can feed you before I send you on your way.”

            “My last good meal,” the Mulli said with a sad smile.

            Dasaf nodded slightly. “I suppose.”

            The door to the room opened, and Leyla poked her head in.

            “Didn’t I tell you to leave?” Dasaf snapped.

            Leyla didn’t look intimidated. “There has to be something we can do, Dasaf.”

            “Leyla.” The Mulli reached out and placed his hand on the door she held, as if restraining himself from touching her. “It’s fine. I understand.”

            “I can’t—” Leyla turned to Dasaf. “We’re just going to give up?”

            “What do you propose I do?”  
            “I don’t know, but maybe—”

            “You think I am made of magic?”

            “No.”

            “You think I don’t want to save Asan?”

            Leyla frowned. “I never questioned your concern for him.”

            “ _Women_. You know nothing of war,” Dasaf growled, shoving the door open and sweeping past her. “Shallaf! Guard this room and make sure the Mulli doesn’t leave. Also make sure he doesn’t harm my sister.”

            Shallaf turned cold eyes to Leyla, who only pursed her lips and shoved her way inside the room. She would have slammed the door if Shallaf hadn’t grabbed it.

            “Door stays open,” he said.

            “I’m not in danger.”

            Shallaf only looked over at the Mulli, who bowed his head and stayed quiet. Shallaf then turned to Dasaf, who sighed.

            “If she gets slit, it’s her own damn fault. Make sure the Mulli is fed well before he leaves tomorrow morning with my answer.”

            Shallaf nodded before Dasaf strode down the aisle, scrambling to fit all of his pieces together before they fell apart. In his darkest moments, he imagined Haadi walking beside him. _You are a Darim_ , Haadi would say. _A Darim is not weak. A Darim welcomes the burdens of his people and stands tall beneath the weight._

_You never loved anyone_ , Dasaf would have told him. _That is how you stayed so strong_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've caught up to myself with writing vs. posting, which is why this is late and why the writing is kinda sucky. This thing was a bitch to churn out. Hopefully next chapter is easier. :)


	30. Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this thing is riddled with grammatical errors, but I have no beta and it's taken me too long to churn this out, so if you find anything let me know. I try. :(

 

“You look terrible.”

            Raheed winced. “You couldn’t have lied and told me how entirely handsome I am?”

            “You’re still handsome. Just the least handsome you’ve been in a while.”

            Raheed chuckled and wearily lowered himself to the cushions that formed a square in the center of the room. Leyla slowly knelt across from him, then reached out and pushed aside a few sweaty curls from his forehead. Her heart swelled as he took her hand and kissed the center of her palm.

            “You shouldn’t,” Leyla said weakly. “You’re going to make me cry.”

            “I wouldn’t mind. I’ve never had a woman cry over me before.”

            Leyla pulled her hand away, folding it against her stomach. “How can you make jokes at a time like this?”

            “Humor is all I have left.”

            Leyla looked him over again. He was in better condition now than he’d been when she’d first met him, but while his body seemed whole, his spirit was in pieces. Even if she hadn’t known his fate, it would have pained her to see him this way. Now she could barely stand to look at him.

            “There has to be something you can do,” Leyla murmured, hoping she didn’t start crying. “We can’t just send you back to your death.”

            “I don’t see any other way.”

            “But . . .” Leyla searched for some argument to make, but if Raheed hadn’t thought of anything, surely Leyla wouldn’t. Battle was his profession, and she was just a woman who had read tales about it. “Raheed, I can’t . . .”

            “You’ll have to.”        

            Leyla fell silent, not trusting her voice at the moment. When she turned to her lap, Raheed’s fingers lifted her chin. One look in his eyes and tears rushed forward. When the first trickled down her cheek, his thumb swept it away. Seconds later, she launched herself at him, toppling him over in her enthusiasm. Their embrace started out as a fierce hug, so powerful that it ripped the breath from her chest. But then she turned her head just slightly and Raheed caught her mouth with his, kissing her with passion she’d thought only existed in her vivid imagination. She tried to kiss him back properly, but her sobs contorted the muscles in her face, making it difficult to move her lips. So she dug her face into his shoulder and clung to his robes, unable to let go of them.

            “Oh, Leyla,” Raheed whispered into the nape of her neck.

            “I’m sorry,” was what Leyla tried to say, but she knew that it was even more garbled than Asan’s first attempts at speech.

            “This was never meant to be anyway,” Raheed said, slowly pulling back by grasping Leyla by her robes. “I should have died before I ever met you.”

            “God brought you back.” Leyla’s voice was a bit stronger now, though it still wavered. “He brought you back for a reason.”

            “I think it was a mistake.” Raheed’s hand slipped over her head, tracing the line of her ear before falling to her neck. “Now He’s trying to fix it.”

            “It’s not fair.”

            “I stopped believing life was fair a long time ago.” Raheed reached up to rub away more tears. “For years I entertained the idea of some poor woman grieving for me.” Slowly the humor leaked from his expression. “How could I have ever wanted such a thing?”

            “It’s just that . . . I’m not only going to lose you. The Mullis are coming for us and Raheed, I’m terrified. I haven’t admitted that to anyone, but I am. I’ve never been more scared in my life. What if I lose everyone? I’m not so frightened for myself, but for my family, for Dasaf, for all the men who will fight.”

            “That is normal.”

            “Why do men fight wars? What good does it do anyone? How can they tolerate the loss?”               

            Raheed sighed heavily. “After a while, you teach yourself how not to care.”

            “Sounds like an awful existence.”  

            “It is.”

            “Oh, Raheed.”

            “Now you know why I don’t really care if I die. When death ceases to be terrifying, maybe life isn’t worth living. I just wish I hadn’t dragged Asan into this mess. Of course, this is only one of my many failures regarding him. I . . .” He trailed off and looked out the window a moment. “He cares so deeply for me, and I don’t know why. For years I have mistreated and disappointed him.”

            “Maybe Asan sees more in you than you do.”

            “Or perhaps Asan sees what he  _wants_  to see.”

            “But I see it too.” Leyla stroked Raheed’s bristled cheek. “So we must both be crazy.”

            Raheed smiled crookedly. “Crazy servants and Hahnars. I believe it.”

            “If you need me to sneak you out of the city again, I’m always willing.”

            Raheed shook his head. “This time I’ll be leaving through the front gate, dressed as a man, I think.”

            “Are you sure? If you went into the Mulli camp as a woman, they might even let you in enough to—” Leyla cut herself off. Her expression must have changed swiftly, because Raheed frowned.

            “You know that’s not possible, correct? Mullis lust for women, but they’re not stupid.”

            “No, no.” Leyla pushed herself to a stand, thinking. Her mind had made a powerful leap, and now it rushed forward faster than her speech could accommodate it.

            “Leyla?”

            “What if we did surrender?” she blurted.

            Raheed looked her over, as if worried she might be losing her mind. “Why would you do such a thing?”  
            “What if they  _thought_  we were?”

            Raheed was silent, then asked, “Leyla, what are you thinking?”

            “I’m not a strategist but . . .” She gnawed on her lip, refusing to let humility stand in the way of what could be a viable plan. Sinking across from Raheed once more, she began to talk excitedly. “Tell me what the Mullis do when they take a city.”

            Raheed paused, but when he was only met with Leyla’s eager eyes, he inhaled and began. “Well, they’d want to take Dasaf hostage, to ensure your compliance. Then they’d come in and imprison all the soldiers before setting up their own guard. When they secured the city, they’d execute Dasaf and probably a good number of the soldiers as well, just to make sure no one was able to rebel.”

            “How long does it take to set up a guard?”

            Raheed shrugged. “A few days? Enough to establish order, map out the city, that sort of thing.”

            “So the soldiers would be imprisoned for several days before they’d be harmed?”

            “If they co-operated.” Raheed sighed. “Leyla, if you’re planning to allow the soldiers’ imprisonment and then sneak them  _all out_  dressed as women—”

              “No. No man would dress like a woman.” She paused, hoping she wasn’t as mad as Raheed must think at the moment. “The women would dress like men.”

            Raheed looked suspicious and confused. “What do you mean, exactly?”

            “Dasaf goes with you to the Mulli camp. They have to keep him alive in order to secure the city and gain compliance.”

            “Right.”

            “When the Mullis show up at the gates, they are greeted by the Khamal army. Well, what they  _think_  is the Khamal army. The army is really women dressed up as soldiers. The typical Khamal uniform covers the face and body beneath thick drapery, so they wouldn’t be able to tell.”

            “Unless you spoke.”

            “A few men could be interspersed throughout, in case such a situation should arise.”

            “And what of the men?”

            Leyla shrugged. “Simple. They hide for a day or so, just long enough for the Mullis to get comfortable and lay their guard down. Why should they be worried behind thick Khamal walls and a whole army imprisoned? In the middle of the night, the men come out of hiding and strike.”

            Raheed blinked at her a moment, and Leyla worried she had made an idiot of herself. But a spark of inspiration crossed his features, and Leyla knew that she was not chasing a preposterous strategy. If anyone knew how the Mullis conquered others, it would be Raheed. With his insight, they could limit the number of female casualties while also maximizing the number of Mulli’s.

            “It’s so dangerous,” Raheed said. “If the women are harmed—”

            “Better they kill us as men than rape and enslave us should they breach the walls.”

            “You don’t know they could do that.”

            “I did not attend the war meetings, but I know how bleak it looks. It could be our only chance at victory.”

            “You really think the women could pretend to be soldiers?”

            “If it is for Khamal, they will do whatever is necessary. When Khamal fought for independence from the Hahnars, there were several women who rode into battle with the men. It was they who established the Council. Mothers still tell tales to their daughters about Blood Moon, the sister of Khamal’s first Sumas. She wore jewelry made of teeth from all the Hahnar officers she killed.” At Raheed’s expression, Leyla smiled. “There is a reason no one has taken Khamal since, Raheed. It was a much more tumultuous time then.”

            “Perhaps your sister is a reincarnation of Blood Moon.”

            Leyla had to laugh. “She would take that as a compliment. Unfortunately, she rides for the Matij. If she can secure their forces around the time of our surrender, they might be able to attack at the same time we do. If they fight beyond our gates and us within them, we can wipe out the Mulli scourge—they’ll have nowhere to escape.”

            Raheed was silent a moment, then suddenly grabbed her head and kissed her. She let out a muffled cry of shock before he released her, grinning.

            “You are a brilliant woman.”

            “You really think it would work?”

            “What other option do we have? Quick! We must find Dasaf. We only have a day to plan!”

* * *

            The whistle of the wind nearly drowned out the sound of flapping tents. Altaf and his men were met at the border of the Matij camp and escorted to its center, which was mostly deserted. Ibahn predicted a sand storm on its way, but the Matij men flanking him insisted that Jakil Ultar wanted to see him now.

            Altaf glanced at his mother. She merely nodded, providing him some confidence. Taking a deep breath, he removed both his sword and dirk from his saddle and sheathed them both along his waist. Ibahn provided him with a more regal keffiyeh to replace the sand-coated one from his long ride, but Altaf was not even awarded the luxury of washing his face before being directed to the chief’s tent. Altaf ignored the fact that he was at least a head shorter than the Matij men and marched forward with a long stride, the sort he’d imagine a confident Sumas would adopt. The Matij men had to trot a few steps to keep up, and that gave him a small burst of pride.

            Beyond the slopes of the parched landscape around them, the dawn stained the sky a bloody orange. Jakil Ultar’s tent was enormous and mostly shrouded in shadow, reminding Altaf more of the Hahnars’ slumbering elephants than a man-made structure.

            A guard opened the tent flap before Altaf’s approach and ushered him inside. The interior was not extravagant, but the rugs looked Mulli to Altaf’s naïve eye. He wouldn’t be surprised to find that they’d been stolen. A pale camel dozed just beyond where Jakil Ultar sat with his legs folded. A slip of a boy served him tea, but Jakil Ultar waved him away and gave Altaf a serpentine smile.

            “I was told by some scouts that you were coming,” Jakil Ultar said. “I have also been told about some unfortunate events with the Mulli dogs.”

            His mother had warned Altaf that Jakil Ultar had eyes and ears all over the desert. It infuriated Altaf that Jakil Ultar had known of their dilemma this whole time and yet showed no sign of caring.

            “Honored Jakil Ultar, I have come to—”

            “—ask for Matij assistance, I am sure. You, just a boy barely weaned from your mother’s breast.”

             _He will test you_ , his mother had said. Altaf took a deep breath and tapped down his initial angry reply.

            “I will be Sumas far longer than my uncle has enjoyed the privilege. I am of the firstborn son of my father Darim Haadi and therefore have future control of the Khamal army.”

            “If there is an army, by the time those Mulli dogs are through with you.”

            “That is why I am here.”

            “Ah, how desperate you must be, to come running to the Matij you consider so far beneath you. What exactly is it that you Khamal say of us? That we are the offspring of thieves and cowards?” Jakil Ultar chuckled as he took a sip of his tea. “The Khamal are so brazen, I will give them that. But despite your savage and bloody past, I see no current proof that you’re much different than those Hahnars beyond the mountain. Did you bring some perfume with you, Darim Altaf? I’m sure no Khamal Hahnar would go without it.”

            Altaf would have liked to stab him, but he took another calming breath to quell the desire.  _It is a test you must pass_. “I have come to ask for Matij assistance in our battle with the Mullis. The Khamal and Matij have always lived in peace, and we depend on one another for trade and goods. You have gone as far to promise me your daughter, Honored Jakil Ultar. Certainly we can put old grudges behind us to fight a common enemy.”

            Jakil Ultar chuckled. “Did Darim Dasaf ask you to say this?”

            “I am capable of saying my own words,  _Honored_  Jakil Ultar.”

            “And that’s why your mother has come with you?”

            “She was worried about me.” His mother might scold him if she knew he said so, but Altaf knew he could appeal to Jakil Ultar’s sensibilities by saying, “Women are weak. I didn’t want to deny my mother the comfort of my presence.”

            Jakil Ultar considered Altaf for a moment, and Altaf ignored the gathering saliva in his throat. If Jakil Ultar saw him swallow, he might consider him afraid.

            “It is not an easy decision to make,” Jakil Ultar finally said. “On one hand, I do consider Khamal an ally. But this is not my battle to fight, and I wonder if it is worth sending  _my_ men to die for  _your_  cause.”

            “Once the Mulli consumes Khamal, they will most likely come for you, Honored Jakil Ultar.”

            “Why should they? What have we here but rocks, shrubs, and goats? We are not like Khamal, with our valuable arable land and hot springs. We have no fort to be of use to the Mullis. It is the Hahnars beyond the mountain that the Mullis really want, and the Matij is in the opposite direction of Bhajar.”

            “If they conquer Khamal, they will want everyone but their own gone. It does not matter to them if Matij land is  _useful_. They will simply want rid of you.”

            “And what would you know about Mulli strategy, boy?”

            Altaf frowned. “I am not a  _boy_. I am Darim Altaf, and I would prefer you address me by that name.”

            Jakil Ultar smirked, and Altaf forced his irritation back down once more. Anger would only amuse the Matij chief, like a boy throwing a temper tantrum. But even if Altaf were rational and levelheaded, would it be any better? He was only twelve, and Jakil Ultar was twice his  _uncle’s_  age.

            “Maffi!” Jakil Ultar called, and a tall stoic man ducked through the tent flap. There was a long scar that made a diagonal line across his flat features.

            “Yes, Honored Chief?” Maffi asked.

            “Retrieve Kalila for me and bring her here.”

            “What?” Altaf asked.

            As Maffi darted out of the tent, Jakil Ultar asked the servant to the side for more tea. When it was poured, Jakil Ultar turned back to Altaf. “I have no loyalty to Khamal, young Sumas. It does not matter to me whether or not Khamal is decimated, so perhaps I should leave the decision up to someone who has more invested in your people.”

            “But . . . Kalila is . . .”

            Jakil Ultar waited, eyebrows raised.

            “Kalila does not understand war.”

            “How appropriate.” He smiled. “Neither do you.”  
            “I killed that Mulli to prove my worth to you.”

            “One Mulli does not a war make. No, I think I shall leave this decision up to Kalila. I thought you would prefer that, considering what you Khamal think of women. You Council is filled with them, so perhaps you consider Kalila more wise than me.”

            Altaf nearly said  _Kalila is thirteen_ , but then he stopped himself upon realizing how Jakil Ultar would respond to that:  _one year older than you_.

            When Kalila arrived, she wore a dark veil over her head, shielding her from view just as before. She took a few steps toward her father, but when he stopped her with a glare, he jerked his head toward Altaf.

            “Do you remember this young man, Kalila?”

            Kalila turned. The veil must have been partially translucent, even if Altaf could only see a slice of shadow beneath it. She jolted in surprise, then quickly bowed.

            “Shuma,” she said softly, her voice muffled by her veil.

            “That is all for your future husband?” Jakil Ultar said, clicking his tongue in disapproval. Kalila stalled in confusion, and he sighed. “Don’t think too hard, daughter of mine. I imagine it hurts your little head.”

            Kalila was completely silent, though Altaf noticed her shoulders bunch up around her ears.

            “I have brought you here to make a decision.”

            “What would that be, Honored Father?”

            “The Mullis ride for Khamal and so Darim Altaf needs our assistance in fighting them off. The Mullis vastly outnumber them.”  
            “How unfortunate, Honored Father.”

            Jakil Ultar laughed, a cruel mocking laugh that even had Altaf flinching.

            “How  _unfortunate_ , yes. Many Khamal men will die, perhaps most of them. It is upon us to save them from this fate. Yet if we assist them, many of our own will die, and for what? For Khamal, who not so long ago were our enemies? It is a difficult decision to make, and I wondered why I should make it. It does not matter to  _me_  what happens to Khamal. But you are going to be Darim Altaf’s future wife. Surely you can make this decision for me.”

            There was a long period of what Altaf imagined was stunned silence. Finally Kalila stuttered out, “I’m sorry, Honored Father, I don’t understand.”

            “How surprising. Tell this young man whether or not the Matij will fight with him. They will be your people one day, and I’ve decided to put the decision in your hands.”

            Altaf would have liked to sink a dagger in Jakil Ultar’s neck. His mother had warned Altaf that he’d play games, but not such cruel ones. Not only was he treating the Khamal people’s plight as if it were a simple school game of logic, but he was giving the weight of such a decision to a person who was never meant to carry it. Altaf didn’t know if it was because of him or because Jakil Ultar seemed to carry a certain animosity for his daughter. Was this to insult Altaf, an attempt to make him beg? Or was this to make a mockery of his child? Altaf couldn’t imagine a father doing such a thing. His father’s decency had been questionable, but Altaf knew he never would have made Altaf to look the fool.

            “Papa, I—I am not qualified to—I cannot make such a decision.”

            “It should be simple. Should the Matij die so that the Khamal can live? Or should the Matij look out for their own and leave Khamal to the dogs?”

            “I’d prefer not to play games,” Altaf said firmly as Kalila’s breath hitched.

            “Who said this was a game?”

            “She is too young—”

            “You are one year her junior.”

            “I have been trained since I was a babe to lead,” Altaf snapped back. “I have always known my role. I imagine Kalila hasn’t a similar background.”

            “She will be Suman. I know how you Khamal love your Sumans. This should be her first lesson in leadership. Kalila?”

            “I don’t know,” Kalila said weakly. “Don’t make me decide, Papa.”

            “You will decide, and your answer will be final.”

            Altaf realized there would be no deterring Jakil Ultar from this game, so he turned to Kalila instead. It was hard to speak with her, considering her face was hidden. He wished he could read her expressions and cater his approach to them.

            “ _Shuman_ Kalila,” Altaf began, and Jakil Ultar snorted. But Altaf ignored him, because Kalila was still older than Altaf and also occupied a place of nobility. If his fate was going to rest with her, he was going to address her formally. “I pray you enjoyed your trip to Khamal?”

            She nodded slowly.

            “Our fortress is what stands between invading Mullis and the Matij. If Khamal is destroyed, I assure you they will come for you.”

            “He doesn’t know that,” Jakil Ultar interjected. “Mullis only care about arable land, gold, and sites to house their troops. There is nothing the Matij have that the Mulli want.”

            “Without Khamal farm land, you’ll be reduced to drinking camel milk and eating snake meat to survive.”

            “When the Matij was not speaking to Khamal, we fared well enough.”

            “By raiding passing caravans!”

            Jakil Ultar’s expression turned sour. “I would watch your tone, boy.”

            “I am _Darim Altaf_ , not  _boy_.” Altaf turned away from Jakil Ultar and faced Kalila, who was shrinking backward. “Kalila, my mother spoke very highly of you. You two must have spoken.”

            There was a short silence. Kalila nodded again. Altaf knew that it might be easier to sway her than her father if he was careful. Her father had already proven to be abusive in his criticisms of her, and Altaf imagined she was given very few freedoms. Maybe if he painted Khamal as a golden city of opportunity, she’d be more willing to save them.

            “My mother is a fierce yet loving person. You would fare well under her tutelage. She’d teach you everything you would need to know about being Suman. Imagine living in our alcazar, where everyone save revered elders is under your command. It is a good life, Kalila, and if the Matij aid us during our tribulations, I promise you will be rewarded tenfold.”

            “Sweet promises from a naïve child,” Jakil Ultar said.

            “Khamal is such a beautiful place. I’m afraid you only saw a slice of it during your visit. There’s more food and water than you could ever consume, and bathhouses where hot water flows naturally from the mountain. Even Hahnars beyond the mountain travel there to bathe. There are markets for shopping and festivals throughout the year to keep one entertained. Above all, I know my family—” Altaf swallowed nervously, “—and myself would do everything necessary to accommodate you and make you feel at home. That is, if we aren’t destroyed by invading Mullis.”

            It was quiet for a moment before Jakil Ultar clapped loudly.

            “How talented you are at swaying women with pretty words! But I have heard enough. Kalila, give him his answer and send him on his way. I am tired of this boy Sumas.”

            “Papa,” Kalila murmured, “may I lift my veil?”

            Jakil Ultar shrugged. “I suppose your betrothed can see your face.”

            Kalila reached to the edge of her veil and pulled it back, exposing her face at last. Altaf had wondered if his mother’s praise of her beauty were exaggerated to placate him, but indeed Kalila was an intensely pretty girl who would most likely bloom into an even more beautiful woman. Altaf found himself swallowing again, for a very different reason.

            Jakil Ultar laughed, which forced Altaf to tear his gaze from Kalila.

            “He is impressed with you, Kalila. Ha! You think I’d marry you to a crone, boy?”  
            Altaf took a deep breath. “Shuman Kalila, it is an honor to meet you face-to-face at last.”

            Kalila just bowed her head and pressed her lips tightly together.

            “Go on, daughter of mine,” Jakil Ultar insisted. “Let’s get this over with.”

            There was a moment when Kalila’s eyes met Altaf’s, and Altaf tried to communicate his desperation with her in one look. Finally she said, “Honored Father, I would like to help the Khamal protect their home from the Mullis.”

            A smile stretched across Altaf’s face just as the one on Jakil Ultar’s fell.

            For the first time, Altaf dreaded his impending marriage a little less.

           

* * *

 

            “It won’t work.”

            “It could.”

            Dasaf shook his head. “There’s too much that could go wrong.”

            “Like?”

            “We’d need at least seven thousand women in order for our army to look believable. What if they end up all butchered or, even worse, found out, raped, and  _then_  butchered?”  
            “Raheed said—”

            “I don’t trust  _anything_  that Mulli says,” Dasaf snarled. Leyla took a step back but lost none of her resolve.

            “He’s done  _nothing_  to deserve your mistrust.”

            “Other than lying to me?”

            “He never lied, for God’s sake Dasaf! That was all you,  _assuming_  he lied. And look where that got us! Now Asan is captured and Raheed is doomed and—”

            “You don’t think I know the consequences of my actions?” Dasaf nearly exploded further, but he was able to rein himself back and take a deep breath. He would not explore that valley of self-hatred right now, not when he had a city to save. “We’re going to stick to the original plan, which means getting all of the women and children out of here.”

            “We have at least seven thousand young women who would be willing—”

            “I’m not putting the women in danger.”

            “What if we want to put ourselves in danger for the sake of our city? We are not your children. If the women want to try it, let them. You remember the stories our mothers told us of Blood Moon and the other women.”

            “Stories. Legends. And that was maybe four or five women in an army of thousands. You think a trained Mulli soldier can’t tell the difference between a Khamal warrior and a woman in his costume? You won’t be able to pretend, not enough to fool a Mulli.”

            “We don’t all need to be good actors, only the few in the front. The few in charge, those can be men. The ones who speak, who would wield swords. They would never think us crazy enough to dress the women up as men. They’d never suspect.”

            “I imagine they would, if that Mulli told them.”

            Leyla frowned. “Must we go over this again?”

            “This entire plan would depend on that Mulli not ratting us out the second he arrives at that camp. This is all so he can save Asan’s life. I don’t doubt his loyalty to his servant, but think of the reward for him should he hand us all over to the Mullis without a fight. He has everything to gain from this, and we have everything to lose.”

            “Raheed wouldn’t do that.”

            Dasaf stopped pacing the room and lifted a hand to rub his forehead. “Leyla, I know you feel certain affection for this man, but don’t let love cloud your common sense.”

            “ _My_  common sense? You’re the one who’s been irrational this whole time! I’m not some stupid naïve girl—I’m nearly your age. At least I didn’t try to chop off Raheed’s head for some crime he never committed.”

            “We are still not in agreement about  _that_.”

            “He never  _lied_!” Leyla barked, expression livid. “You are just— _uuuugh!_ Fine. Fine.” Leyla swept her hands in front of her sharply. “Don’t trust me. That’s fine. Assume I’m some silly lovesick girl who hasn’t spent far more time with him than you did.  Assume my judgment of him is completely swayed by my gender and his  charming treatment of me. But let me ask you  _this_ , Dasaf. Do you trust  _Asan_?”

            Dasaf glared at her, wishing she were Shallaf and would listen if he sent her out. Unfortunately, Leyla had never taken orders from him. She and her sister always had  _that_  in common.

            “Why do you ask?”

            “Answer the question.”

            Dasaf inhaled sharply. “Of course I trust Asan.”

            “Well, Asan trusts Raheed. Asan risked his life for Raheed, ran away from Khamal to be with Raheed. Even when you threatened to behead Raheed for his betrayal, Asan stood before you and vouched for Raheed’s trustworthiness. He never doubted his Mulli soldier, not once. So if you trust Asan, how can you not trust Raheed? Asan does.”

            “Asan is going to be killed because of Raheed.”

            “Asan is going to be killed because you chased him off! Because you didn’t trust Raheed! See where that has gotten us?”  
            “I . . .” Dasaf fought for something cruel to hurl at her, but she was right. He hadn’t lived a moment since Asan’s departure without regretting his behavior. Of course he didn’t believe the Mulli’s claims, but Dasaf could have handled it differently. He’d just been  _angry_ , traumatized, distraught. He needed to take revenge on someone, and all the other Mullis were dead and gone. It was the one time Dasaf had truly lost his temper in an explosive fashion, and it cost him someone he’d loved.

            “I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Leyla said, voice soft. She must have seen the pain in Dasaf’s expression. “But this is not a time for petty grudges. Asan’s not here, but I know what he’d say if he were. Maybe it’s time to see in Raheed what Asan does.”

             _Asan is young and naïve_ , Dasaf thought. But he recalled how Asan had faced Dasaf when they’d first met, half-crazed and all bones, yet with an expression of iron determination. There was more Asan saw in Raheed than good looks and quick wit, and maybe Dasaf had to let himself believe it.

            “Our entire nation would be in his hands,” Dasaf said weakly. “And I have not treated him well.”

            “But I have. I am just as Khamal as you are. He wouldn’t betray us just to get back at you.”

            “I have to take your word on that.”

            “Yes. You do.” Leyla put a hand on his arm. “This can work, Dasaf. You and I both know that there’s no other way. We have twelve thousand men, at  _most,_ and that’s including untrained boys and old men. The Mullis have twenty-five thousand trained soldiers, young and ready to die for their cause. If we don’t try this . . .”

            “There’s always the Matij.”

            “We don’t know if they’ll come, and even if they do, it would be a very hard battle to fight. Many would die. Maybe this way we can save lives.”

            Dasaf tried to think of what Haadi would do. He had no doubt that Haadi would ignore Leyla’s plan and fight the proper way, a way that required no trusting of an outsider and no endangerment of women. Then again, if Haadi had been a bit more clever, a bit more malleable, he might still be alive. Perhaps God had given Dasaf this burden for a reason. Maybe He knew that Dasaf would save them when Haadi would allow them to perish.

            “We have to take it to the Council, and you will have a much harder time convincing them.”

            Leyla’s expression was firm. “We have a much tougher battle ahead than one waged with the Council. We’ll make them listen to us. We’ll make them see.”

            Dasaf couldn’t help but smile just a little, because at the moment she looked so much like her sister and they like their mother.  _Khamal women are stronger than the rest_ , Dasaf’s mother had told him once _. A world does not listen to a bleating lamb, but it will dart away from a hissing scorpion._

            Sliding his hand over the Khamal pin on his breast, Dasaf said, “Alright. Let’s see what we can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tempted to put Yussam and Jakil Ultar into a rocket and blast them both into the sun. :/


	31. Cooperation

 

“It is impossible.”

            “Ridiculous.”

            “Highly unconventional and—”

            “— _dangerous!”_

It was not Fasa’s original intention to attend the Council meeting. It was, after all, between the elder women and the men at the highest stations of command, and she was just a common scullery maid. But even generals and wise women needed to keep themselves watered, and it was the task that had been given to Fasa. Twice now she’d had to bite her tongue to keep from speaking out. Silence had never come easily to her.

            At the center of the room, standing in golden ring of sunlight provided by the circle of lattice in the domed ceiling were Dasaf, Leyla, and Raheed. Fasa had thus avoided Raheed’s attention, but it was good to see him again, even if she’d never seen him so grim. She’d been hoping on Asan’s appearance as well, but apparently Asan was still a captive of the Mullis, which was why Raheed was here in the first place. It had all been explained to the Councilwomen in a rush, including Leyla’s plan on how Khamal might save itself from imminent destruction.  

            One of the men seated just behind Dasaf waved at Fasa, and she came forward to pour his tea. She nearly missed his ceramic mug, due to her gaze remaining on the center of the room.

            “We will remain with the original plan,” said one of the women, probably the youngest in the group and easily the most skeptical. “The women and children leave and the men stay to fight.”

            “And where will the women and children go?” Dasaf asked.

            “They will go beyond the mountain.”

            “Into the welcoming arms of the Hahnars I imagine?” Leyla said. Her voice filled the room with such authority that Fasa ballooned with pride. Leyla had always been the kinder sister, more soft-spoken and affectionate. Yet the fire that burned in Malika was not entirely absent from Leyla. Fasa wanted to feed on that confidence, because the only woman she’d seen so in possession of it was her own mother, at least before the slave masters beat it out of her. “The Matij cannot support us, and the Hahnars have never been friends of ours. If Khamal falls, they’ll be the first to challenge the Mullis for it.”

            “What you suggest,” said another elderly woman, “is madness. There’s too much that could go wrong. The more complicated a strategy, the more likely it is to fail.”

            “It’s not complicated,” Leyla defended. “It’s relatively simple.”

            “Only if you trust what that Mulli dog says.”

            To Raheed’s credit, he did not flinch, nor did he speak. Dasaf must have explained to him the rules of the Council chamber.

            “Dasaf, you wanted to execute this man for lying. And now you trust him with the fate of our city?”

            “My decision before was influenced by passion and anger. After deliberation, I’ve realized that what I did was a mistake. The Mulli has shown no sign of deceit.”

            “ _Yet_.  I imagine the Mullis would award him generously if he were to bring Khamal to them on a silver platter.”

            “Raheed hates the Mullis,” Leyla said forcefully. “They have threatened to kill and torture his servant unless he did as bid. That is not anyone you want to assist.”

            “Mullis are cruel and without morals. How are we to know he cares a mote about his servant? If they offered him a castle of gold and a thousand Hahnar whores, we’d have our limbs in chains by tomorrow.”

            Leyla thrust her chin forward. “I would trust Raheed with _my_ life, and I am the only one here who has known him at all. By questioning him, you question my judgment.”

            “Child, even you can be deceived.” One of the elders leveled Raheed with a rather potent glare. “Mullis are very good liars, and they think little of women.”

            “Even if we did go forward with this plan,” said another elder, “where would you hide all of the men? There is no place in the alcazar large enough to accommodate them outside of the dungeons, and if the Mullis take the alcazar, it will be impossible to get it back. It was built to withstand a siege of twenty thousand.”

            _Five thousand too few_ , Fasa thought.

            There was a pause, and Fasa noticed Leyla falter. No one had thought of this, and even though Fasa understood the consequences of speaking unbidden in the Council room, she couldn’t stop herself.      

            “Honored Council,” she spoke in a voice that wavered. Every head turned to her, and she was not immune to the glares of nearly everyone except Leyla and Raheed. Not only was she not being asked to speak, but she was also a servant. A servant’s voice was never welcome in the chamber of proven military leaders and wise women, but Fasa found the bravery to continue.

            “What is this?” snapped one of the elder women. “Who are you?”

            “Forgive me, _shuman_ ,” Fasa bowed her head, attempting her best manners when she was at her most rude, “but there is a place.”

            “You are not allowed to speak, girl.”

            “I understand, _shuman_. But I know of a place in the alcazar that no one else may know.”

            “Every inch of this alcazar has been mapped and recorded,” said another elder, this one with wrinkles forming a more compassionate façade.

            “There are some places that may have been forgotten,” Fasa replied. “The crypts.”

            “This alcazar has no crypts.”

            “It did at one time, _shuman_. I’ve seen them. If they are not large enough to hold the men, they are connected to a tunnel that runs all the way out of the city, several miles long.”

            “Impossible. We would know about such a route!” exclaimed another.

            “I can show you, _shuman_ , if you doubt me.”

            “Where is it?” Dasaf asked, his masculine voice catching Fasa by surprise.

            “It’s in your private garden, Sumas.”

            “ _My_ private garden?” Dasaf’s brow wrinkled with doubt. “I’ve never seen anything.”

            “I can show you. I swear to you it’s there. It’s how Asan escaped the city.”

            “Asan? But—” Dasaf looked to Raheed, who shrugged. He frowned. “Show us this tunnel, Fasa, and be quick about it. We don’t have much time.”

            “I would be glad to, Honored Sumas.”

           

* * *

 

            The debate raged for hours, and they were running out of time. Whenever Raheed was led outside, he kept his eyes on the sky, watching the sun sink with despair. By morning they would need to come to a decision before he headed back to the Mulli camp, and at this rate, he couldn’t imagine any solid agreement. Perhaps they would have been more welcoming to the idea if Raheed’s trustworthiness were not up for debate. He suffered every insult that could possibly be made of a Mulli, but he reminded himself it was not nearly so terrible as what he’d suffered at the hands of Mullis, men who were supposed to be his _brothers._ As the wise women and generals bickered, Raheed’s thoughts drifted to Asan. He hoped Yussam had kept his word about not hurting Asan, but that’s all it was—hope. He couldn’t be sure until he returned.

            A quick recess was called so that they could rest and eat. Raheed would have preferred not to, but his body squirmed with hunger nevertheless. He was not welcome to eat with the Khamal, but Fasa brought him bread and wine and sat at his side outside of the Council room.

            “How is Asan?” she asked.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Do you really think this plan will work?”

            “If the Khamal ever make up their minds, it will. It’s not the plan they seem to take issue with, but _me_.”

            “If you were them, would _you_ trust you?”

            “Definitely not,” Raheed said with a chuckle as he took a sip from his wine. There were chains connecting his wrists and ankles, but they weren’t terribly tight. The chains were a present from Shallaf, but their length was courtesy of Leyla. God, he loved that woman. As he watched her stand by his side and defend his honor, he became convinced he’d never loved anyone more. No one but Asan had believed in him with such determination, and he almost wanted to tell her he wasn’t worth it.

            “It’s a good strategy. If they do it, I want to be at the front lines. Give me a sword and let me stab a few of those Mullis.”

            Raheed could see _that_ too easily. If women like Fasa defended Khamal, they’d have less of a reason to worry about Mullis. 

            “Hopefully Leyla can convince them,” Fasa said after a short silence.

            “Let’s hope. Not only could it work, but it means saving Asan’s life.”

            Fasa’s mouth trembled before she turned away and began to twirl a chunk of hair around  her finger. Raheed had told her about Yussam’s “deal”, so she knew the consequences of Raheed returning empty-handed. “Did you tell Leyla about Asan?”

            “Of course. Dasaf too.” Raheed faced Fasa, wondering if she, as a servant, had known of Dasaf and Asan’s relationship before he did. He’d been told that if you wanted to know about any secret affairs, the best person to ask was a servant. But Fasa’s expression didn’t change, so he assumed she was ignorant. With a sigh, he finished off the last of his bread.

            “I’ve never prayed in my life,” Fasa muttered to the ground. “Do you think I should start now?”

            “If it brings you peace, I suppose.”

            “I just wonder if it would help.”

            Raheed shrugged. “It’s never worked for me, but you never know. It can never hurt.”

            The door to the Council room opened, and Leyla emerged. “Raheed, we need you once more.”

            After clapping the crumbs from his hands, Raheed stood and followed Leyla into the Council room. Dasaf sat by his advisors now, eyes focused on Raheed with both suspicion and tentative curiosity. Raheed didn’t know how Leyla had convinced Dasaf to take his side, considering what Dasaf had always thought of him. He imagined it had something to do with Asan, but of course Dasaf wouldn’t risk the lives of his people for Asan, even if he loved him. There had to be more to it.

            “We want the detailed process of how the Mullis take cities,” one of the elder women demanded via Dasaf’s translation.

            So Raheed told them. He had only been involved in the conquering of two cities himself, and those were cities up north, very different from anything the Hahnars had built. Those cities were smaller and less fortified, making them easier targets. Yet Khamal’s size and structure would inspire _more_ caution, not less, and it was this caution that would work to their advantage. The Mullis wouldn’t just run in and burn everything to the ground without being challenged by some very formidable foes. The Mullis had to establish total order in a short period of time, because once word got to the Hahnars beyond the mountain that Khamal had been taken, surely they’d be outraged. The Hahnars beyond the mountain tolerated Khamal in the best of times, but surely they’d take it’s take-over as a direct threat. Mullis wouldn’t want thirty thousand invading Hahnars at the gates of a city they couldn’t control from within.

            This was what Raheed told them, and for once, the women didn’t strike him down immediately. Slowly they grew more curious, digging deeper into the strategy and testing him at every facet to unearth any possible lies. Raheed wished there was some way to prove to them that he was trustworthy. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to hard to save a city that had showed him no kindness, but on the other hand, it _had_ shown Asan mercy. That was enough reason to save it, because Mulli had been nothing but cruel to Raheed’s servant.

            “Leave us. We would like to debate it further,” said an elder woman.

            Two soldiers escorted out Raheed. Fasa had taken off, so Raheed sat on the floor in the outside hall alone. Even if he could hear through the Council room walls, he wouldn’t have understood the Hahnar they spoke. So he waited anxiously.

            Night fell by the time the door opened and Dasaf emerged with his advisors. Most of the men walked briskly in opposite directions, but Dasaf stood over Raheed, frowning.

            “Well?” Raheed asked.

            “They’re gathering women volunteers.”

            Raheed resisted the urge to shout with relief. Instead he just smiled and stood. “We’re moving forward with this plan, then?”

            “Yes.”

            Raheed opened his mouth to reply, but moments after he spotted Leyla moving through the throng, she jumped upon him and embraced him tightly with both arms.

            “The Council has agreed to do it! I know it will work, Raheed. It _has_ to!”

            “It will,” Raheed said into her shoulder, loving the warmth and soft yield of her body against his. It would be torture to leave this and return to the Mullis, who he hated almost as much as Dasaf did. “And when it does, you can become Dasaf’s top advisor.”

            Leyla pulled back just enough to face him, putting her mouth within tantalizing distance of his. “Dasaf can become _my_ advisor.”

            Suddenly there was an arm that forced its way between them, pulling them apart. Leyla frowned at her brother-in-law, who showed no sign of caring. He still looked about as serious as the stoic faces etched into the old murals along the alcazar walls. Clearly he was not in the mood for jokes _or_ affection.

            “You.” Dasaf turned to Raheed. “Don’t test my patience. I’d rather you keep your hands off my sister.”

            Raheed was about to protest—Leyla had hugged _him_ —but then he closed his mouth, deciding it was futile. If Dasaf was going to trust him, Raheed had to prove himself worthy of it.

            “Leave it, Dasaf,” Leyla said. “We have bigger problems.”

            Dasaf withdrew his arm, but he shot Raheed one more warning look.

            “I’m going to volunteer,” Leyla told them.

            “You can’t,” Dasaf shot back.

            “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

            “I am _Sumas_. I can tell you to do whatever I like.”

            “I’m not going to get hurt.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “Dasaf, maybe you should let her—”

            “No!” Dasaf whirled on Raheed, jabbing a finger at him. “If you cared about her, you wouldn’t let her either.”

            “I care about _you_ and I’m letting you ride off to the Mulli camp _alone_ ,” Leyla protested. “That’s far more dangerous.”

            “Such dangerous expeditions are expected of me.”  
            “Because you’re a man.”

            “ _Yes_.”

            “Why can’t I do something for my people for once?” Leyla snapped.

            “You have already done enough. You have always been useful with your remedies.”

            “I can still do that. You need to stop trying to protect me as if I’m a child. I am nearly your age. I can make my own decisions.” When Dasaf glared at her, Leyla’s voice went quiet. “I know what this is about, Dasaf. I know you have lost Haadi and your mother, but you cannot protect everyone you love all the time. You let Malika ride off with Altaf. Why is this any different?”

            “You will be captured and jailed by the Mullis.”

            “Only for a night or so.”

            “If they find out you are a woman . . .” Dasaf inhaled sharply and grabbed her shoulder. “They _cannot know_ , Leyla, do you hear me? There are twenty-five thousand of them, and dear God slay us all if they find out.” When Leyla sighed, Dasaf shook her, gaze intense. “Do you have the willpower and strength to kill yourself? Because that is what you will have to do should they learn the truth. Unless you want a horde of slobbering dogs upon you.”

            Leyla pressed her lips tightly together. Raheed wished he could have stepped in and contradicted Dasaf. _Oh, the Mullis aren’t that terrible_. But he could not argue with Dasaf. One or two Mullis were not cruel, but in packs they had one mind, and it was nearly always wicked.

            “They won’t know I’m a woman,” Leyla finally said. “And if they do find out, I will slit my throat myself.”

            Dasaf stared at her a moment, then pulled her into a powerful embrace, kissing the top of her head fiercely. When they separated, they shared a meaningful look before turning to Raheed.

            “Take care of Dasaf,” Leyla said, her voice wavering. “Bring him back home.”

            “I’ll do my best.”

            Ignoring Dasaf, Leyla stood on her toes and kissed Raheed lightly on the lips. “I want all those I love alive by the end of this.”  
            “I feel the same,” Raheed replied.

            “I’m going to go see what needs done with the women volunteers,” Leyla said. “Dasaf, you should prepare yourself and Raheed for your journey. You have to leave by tomorrow morning.”

            The day had gone too fast. Now Raheed’s chest constricted with fear, a sensation he was not used to. Now he was in charge of more than just his life, and that terrified him. Luckily, Dasaf seemed to understand. They nodded at one another, and for once, there was no animosity between them.

 

* * *

 

            It was like gazing upon a lost child, even though Raheed and his horse had only been apart for less than a month. When the reins were handed to him, he couldn’t help but run a reverent hand down Ahmbra’s blaze and heave a sigh of joy.

            “Oh, Ahmbra, it’s been too long.”

            She shook her head and snorted. The grooms had certainly kept her coat clean and her hooves trimmed, because he’d never seen in her in such fine condition. He’d always done his best in caring for her, but in treacherous territory with few resources, usually she was as haggard as Raheed was.

            A dark bay stallion was led past him and handed over to Dasaf. The donkeys Raheed had brought stood just to the left, burdened with water and supplies. Raheed barely recognized Dasaf in his traveling clothes, which were much rougher than his usual affair. He looked more Matij now than he did Khamal, something Raheed would never disclose.

            Nearly all of Dasaf’s advisors had come to the plaza to see their Sumas off, as well as Dasaf and Malika’s extended family. Some of the younger ones came forward to drape flower necklaces around his neck. In return, he gave each a kiss on the forehead and a forced smile. Raheed had only seen Dasaf in the throes of violent retribution, so it was unusual to see the outpouring of love and tears for a man who had made Raheed’s life miserable since Asan had saved it. Even more surprising was Dasaf’s gentle affection for his family. Of course Dasaf had been protective of his sister-in-law, but Raheed considered that normal. Any Mulli man would guard his female relatives like property, and Raheed assumed the Hahnars to be similar. Yet Dasaf’s tenderness with his family reached beyond ownership. For the first time, Raheed saw in the Sumas a sliver of what Asan might have.

            Someone broke from the throngs of relatives and ran toward Raheed. Leyla looked oddly naked without the usual weight of jewelry around her neck and wrists, and when Raheed glanced down, he noticed a flash of bare feet beneath the folds of her caftan. He didn’t have time to wonder about it before Leyla crashed into him, nearly crushing both of them with her embrace.

            “Is that your mother giving me a death glare at the moment?” Raheed wheezed out, arms trapped at his side. Indeed there was a tall and willowy woman who had similar features to Leyla pinning him with one of the most ferocious looks he’d seen in a woman since he’d saved Fasa from an encounter with his men.

            “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” Leyla said, reaching up and holding his face in both hands. Her eyes wildly searched his. “Promise me you and Dasaf will return to me alive.”

            “I can’t promise that,” Raheed replied. “But I will do everything within my power to protect you and your family.”

            She squeezed her lips together, clearly not pacified.

            “I should be making _you_ promise,” Raheed told her softly. “ _You’re_ going to be in more danger than _me_.” Sobriety rolled over him upon remembering what Dasaf had asked her to promise last night. “I wish I could say that Dasaf is paranoid and overly protective when it comes to Mulli men, but I can’t. Many of them are good men I’d trust with my life, but many of them are not.”

            “You don’t have to remind me. I know what I face.”

            “I’d give you my good luck charm, but I threw it out in the desert,” Raheed replied. “And the Mulli men took your necklace from me.”

            “Then take this,” Leyla said before standing on her toes and kissing his mouth. He might have enjoyed it more if he weren’t afraid the Khamal Hahnars would kill him just through the intensity of their glares. Gently, he pulled back.

            “That is something that can’t be lost or taken,” Leyla whispered to him, her hands still clasped at the back of his neck.

            Overcome and afraid to speak, Raheed just nodded. Slowly he reached up and took her wrists, pulling her arms apart so that they could once again rest at her sides. It had been a long time since he’d come so close to crying, so in fear that he might, he signed instead.

            _I love you_.

            Leyla looked down at his hands, then up at his face. They were simple gestures to understand, so he had few doubts she received the message. With a hand clapped to her mouth and tears running down her cheeks, she took several long strides backward, as if afraid to turn her back on him.

            Dasaf came up alongside her then and hugged her to his side. She whispered something in his ear as they embraced, but it was in Hahnar so Raheed did not understand. They shared one more poignant look before breaking apart. Leyla returned to her family while Dasaf walked his horse over to Raheed.

            “I hope you know,” Dasaf said, “that the fate of an entire people rests in your hands from now on.”

            “It’s not anything I take lightly,” Raheed replied.

            Dasaf leveled him with a hard look before vaulting into his saddle and kicking his horse toward the alcazar gate. Raheed closely followed, pulling the donkeys along behind. He dared only one glance back, but he could not see Leyla amongst the sea of dark Hahnar faces that watched him in utter silence. As Dasaf had said, all their lives depended on him. He had carried such a burden before as captain, but that had been over Mulli men, men with no children, no parents, and no one to mourn their passing. It was a burden he could carry while standing tall. This weight nearly crushed him, and he just hoped he’d live long enough to pass it along to someone else.

 

* * *

 

            They traveled at a canter until the rocky cliffs of Khamal looked wobbly and gray in the distance. Then Dasaf pulled his stallion to a steady walk, waiting for the sound of the Mulli’s mare to catch up. In the silence of the desert, every shift of the saddle or clink of the bit echoed like a scream. Dasaf ran a hand down the damp neck of his dark bay, trying not to think too much about what lied ahead for them, nor the implications of traveling with a Mulli whose trustworthiness remained at the center of their strategy.

            Since the Mulli would be his traveling partner for three days, Dasaf decided the time would pass more easily if they were at least cordial. Considering the circumstances, any lighthearted mood seemed impossible, but Dasaf was good at finding sunlight in dark caves.

            “Are you trying to send Leyla’s mother to an early grave?” Dasaf asked once the Mulli was riding beside him. The Mulli’s mare was slightly shorter than Dasaf’s stallion, so Dasaf was smug to find that he sat higher.

            “I can’t help that she keeps throwing herself at me.”

            “Leyla is naïve in the ways of men. I fear she sees a handsome face and little else.”

            “I’m still handsome though, right?”

            Dasaf looked down at Raheed with a disdainful expression.

            The Mulli sighed. “I remember you having a much better sense of humor when we first met.”

            “I was young and stupid then.”

            “You’ll probably never believe me, but I care very much for Leyla, and I wouldn’t see her harmed, especially at my hands.”

            “I’m sure your intentions are so very _pure_.”

            The Mulli frowned. “And I could probably say the same of you toward my _servant_ , eh Dasaf?”

            Dasaf jerked his horse to a stop so suddenly that the Mulli’s walked several steps before he was able to rein her back. The donkeys kept moving until they reached the end of their lead, and the combined force of their halt jerked the Mulli’s chestnut to the side.

            “What did you say?” Dasaf asked.

            The Mulli pursed his lips. “Asan told me.”

            Dasaf’s shoulders stiffened. “What did he tell you?”

            “An assortment of things. He didn’t tell me about you specifically, but I made inferences.” The Mulli gathered his horse’s reins and urged her back into a walk, the donkeys reluctantly following. He called over his shoulder, “Don’t look so terrified!”

            Dasaf caught up to the Mulli at a quick trot. “How long have you known?”

            The Mulli shrugged. “Not very long. Now that I think about it, it should have been fairly obvious. I suppose I just never considered the possibility.”

            Dasaf nearly rushed to explain himself before he realized that the Mulli was not attacking him. He didn’t even look particularly ruffled. Of course, with some Hahnar traditions, Dasaf’s preferences would not be seen as unusual. If he lived beyond the mountain, he didn’t think anyone would so much as scoff. But the Mullis were far more strict in whom they allowed to bed whom, and Dasaf hadn’t expected the Mulli’s indifference.

            “You don’t care then?” Dasaf asked.

            The Mulli snorted. “Of _course_ I care. You think I am playing games with Leyla; am I to assume you’ve done the same with Asan? One could say he is naïve like Leyla, sweet-natured and reserved. He would be easy to manipulate.”

            “He’s _your_ glorified slave. If anyone is manipulative—”

            For the first time, a nerve was brushed. The Mulli glowered at Dasaf. “Asan came with me of his own free will. I have saved his life and he mine. He has never been my slave, and if he had at any point become disenchanted with me, he could have left with my blessing. Weren’t _you_ the one who held him prisoner? I recall that being the deal. You let me live if he agreed to be your hostage.”

            “He could have left at any time and I wouldn’t have stopped him.”

            “Did _he_ know that?”

            “What good could come from manipulating Asan?”

            “The same good to come from manipulating Leyla,” the Mulli replied.

            Dasaf scowled and fell into silence. If there was any light-hearted conversation to be had, it wasn’t with the Mulli.

 

* * *

 

            Someone had once told Raheed that the desert night was much like death. It was cold and quiet and filled with an empty flat nothingness that stretched on into forever. Yet when Raheed craned his neck back to look at the sky, he couldn’t imagine death having so many stars. As long as the constellations glittered above, Raheed would be comforted knowing that he still breathed.

            The horses and donkeys were tied to stakes driven in the ground, but even they had drifted to sleep, interrupting the silence with only a flick of the tail or a heavy sigh. Raheed and Dasaf hadn’t bothered with a fire in fear some Mulli scouts might see, so they used only the light of the moon to see by. The sandy earth was an eerie blue in its glow.

            “I will be first watch,” Dasaf muttered, drawing circles in the dirt with his sword blade. “I suggest you catch a few hours of sleep.”

            “Not sure how much sleep can be had out here.” He peered into the distance. During the day, a hint of the far Hahnar Mountains could be seen. Raheed heard stories about the bay beyond them, how the water was turquoise and the beaches covered in a fine white sand. It was no wonder the Mullis wanted it, but of course, so did everyone else. The Hahnars had spent their entire existence protecting their homeland. The Mullis were just a repeat of what they’d already defeated.

            “Do you think the Mullis could ever get to Bhajar?” Raheed asked.

            “To Bhajar? Maybe. To anything beyond it? No. Beyond the desert are places and peoples they can’t imagine, and more lands than they could ever rule. The Hahnars already failed to conquer it all.”

            “How far does the Hahnar Empire stretch?”  
            “Oh, a good distance, but not until the edge of the earth. I don’t know what the Mullis’ goal is. To conquer the world? Impossible.”

            “Even I don’t really know. I’ve always assumed the war goes on forever, or at least until I die.” Raheed paused. “Why did the Khamal and the Matij separate?”

            “Religious differences. Cultural differences. We’ve always been separate, but the Hahnars conquered both our people in their efforts to gain territory and wealth. There were some failed rebellions before Khamal was truly able to toss them out. The Matij rode on the back of our victories, and I suppose the Hahnars didn’t find us worth the trouble. Khamal is small, the Matij even smaller. My great-great-great-grandfather was the first free Sumas, Darim Jhabin. He did many great things by freeing the slaves and appointing his grandmother as the first member of the Council, as she had arranged his first successful rebellion.”

            “It must be odd, to know that a man who did all that brought you into this world.” Raheed nudged a rock away from his toe. “I imagine I was a bastard child of some ruffian. I never met my father and barely remember my mother.”

            “I hear the Mulli army purchases its soldiers.”

            “Sometimes. Sometimes it takes them. Sometimes conquered nations pay taxes in sons. Sometimes they’re even given over, because it’s known that the Mulli army will feed and educate those it raises. It’s thought that a boy will have a better life with the army than he ever would as a poor boy.”

            “Do you think that’s true?”

            “I don’t know. I can’t remember too well the life I had before the Mulli army. My mother . . .” Raheed didn’t think about his mother much. His memories of her were blurry, and sometimes he thought that maybe he’d just imagined them. He recalled her dark curls, the way they’d fall over her shoulders and frame her face. Perhaps he should have been able to find a memory of her embrace, her smile, her motherly warmth. But there was nothing. Just figments of a stranger whose face barely resembled his. “My mother sold me. I have this memory of a marketplace, of watching her walk away. I was given a tangerine to stop my crying.” Raheed ran a hand over his face and through his hair. “It was all it took to win me over.”

            Dasaf was silent for a while before asking, “Do you know anything about Asan?”

            “No. Not his background, at least. When I met him, he was a beggar boy of eleven. I imagine he was abandoned because of his hearing.”

            “You never thought to ask him?”

            “I have asked. He didn’t have much to say. He started his life on the streets about the same time I began my career as a soldier: early.”

            Dasaf grunted and went back to drawing circles in the earth with his sword. Raheed wondered if it was odd for Dasaf, a man with a long pedigree, to imagine the life of a lowborn, men who didn’t even know their fathers. Raheed certainly had difficulty imagining a life of such privilege, growing up surrounded by money and family and a populace that seemingly adored you. Raheed wasn’t sure which one he’d choose, if given the choice.

            With a sigh, Raheed stood and gathered a blanket from one of the donkey’s panniers. With some luck, he might be able to sleep for a few hours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I gots a [Tumblr.](http://wandarox.tumblr.com/)


	32. Friends

 

            Dasaf’s dreams were not kind to him. Ever since the incident with the Mulli scouts, Dasaf was often visited by visions of swords cutting through neck tendons, of blood-stained teeth, of slippery intestines spilling from the bellies of men who resembled Tarim. If he was not dreaming of violence, he dreamed of his family, of his late father, of Asan.

            In one scene, he chased his mother through the gardens, following the sound of her laugh. It was always easy to find her in the alcazar when he was young, and even when memories of her faded, her laugh stayed with him so vividly that even now he would recognize it in a din of a million. Yet as he jumped up onto the ledge of a fountain to test his balance, he saw that it was his father standing in the doorway, dressed in his usual dark robes. Dasaf’s fear was so ripe that he could taste its rot in his mouth. He immediately dismounted from the fountain and bowed his head in respect as his father approached in short, quick strides.

            “Why are you frolicking like a child?” his father asked. “Now is not the time for such nonsense.”

            “I apologize, Honored Father,” Dasaf murmured, still staring at his feet. When his father’s shadow fell across him, he dared one look up. But instead of his father’s pitless eyes glaring down at him, it was instead a teenage Haadi. His beard was only half-formed, but his expression had turned to stone years before.

            “Haadi?” Dasaf asked.

            “They are at our gates, Dasaf. This is all your fault!”  
            Dasaf still had the stature of a child, and he feared he was shrinking under the intensity of his brother’s disapproval. Within seconds, Haadi was a scowling giant while Dasaf was the size of a mouse.

            “I should have been here,” Haadi snarled. “ _I_ could have saved Khamal.”

            “I know,” Dasaf whispered, attacked by a sudden hysteria. “I know, Haadi. I’m sorry.”

            “A Sumas never apologizes,” Haadi replied.

            “You can save Khamal now, can’t you?”

            “Oh, Dasaf.” Haadi shook his head and took several steps backward, his image growing blurry around the edges. “It’s far too late for me to save you from failure now.”

            Somewhere in the distance, he heard his mother laugh again.

            “Is that Mother?” Dasaf asked Haadi, but when he looked, Haadi was not there. The garden was empty, filled only with the sound of singing birds and trickling water. He heard his mother’s singing voice ring through the walls, a simple child’s rhyme she had used to sooth a frantic Dasaf when he couldn’t sleep. He had chased her before, but now he began to run in the opposite direction. The voice did not come from his mother but instead a sad apparition that only reminded him of her death. As he ran, he grew taller, as if each step aged him a year. By the time he was his normal height again, he found himself in a dark corridor, as quiet as the desert night. His mother’s voice was gone, as was the birdsong on the wind.

            Dasaf slowed to a walk as he strode down the aisle to the doorway at the end. This arch led out into another garden, so bright that it nearly blinded him for a moment. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, and as his vision adjusted, he saw the figure standing in the center, back to him. Dasaf feared he was a ghost as well, a spirit trapped in a netherworld of Dasaf’s mind, where no one rested.

            “You’re alive, aren’t you, Asan?” Dasaf asked in desperation, stumbling into the garden. Asan did not turn to face him, which might have scared Dasaf away had Asan not been deaf. Maybe he could not hear. Dasaf risked reaching out for him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Asan?”

            Asan turned, and Dasaf braced himself for the worst. But there was nothing deathly about Asan’s face. Unlike Haadi and Dasaf’s father, there was a vibrance and energy to Asan’s features that helped pierce through the knot of despair in Dassaf’s gut.

            Raising a hand to touch Asan’s cheek, Dasaf said, “Please wait for me.”

            Asan said nothing as his black eyes met Dasaf’s. His expression was devoid of anything Dasaf could comprehend, and Dasaf didn’t know how to react.

            “My beautiful boy,” came a voice from behind Dasaf. Dasaf twisted and saw his mother standing in the archway he had just passed through, her arms extended. The love that had kept Dasaf shielded from the harsh discipline of his father filled her smile and eyes. “I knew I’d find you eventually. Come here, love.”

            Dasaf was frozen. How he would have loved to run to her, to bury himself in her embrace and allow her shroud of protection to encompass him once again. But she was dead, and this wasn’t real. This was his sick mind bringing her back, torturing him with promises of what could never be.

            “I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

            Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm from behind, twisting him around. Asan spoke then, but not in his own voice. “Dasaf.”

            “Asan?” Dasaf asked in confusion.

            “ _Dasaf_!”

            Dasaf jolted awake, his hand wrapping around the grip of his sword and withdrawing it more quickly than his wits could return. Once they did, he realized he was holding the front of the Mulli’s cloak, holding a sword to his throat. But then he felt the tip of something against his ribs and saw that the Mulli and pulled his sword as well.

            “Mind letting me go?” the Mulli asked.

            Dasaf shoved him back, quickly sheathing his sword. “Don’t you know how to wake people a bit more gracefully?”

            “You were muttering in your sleep,” the Mulli grumbled, regaining his balance and brushing sand off his robes. “You seemed distressed.”

            Dasaf looked toward the horizon. “It is almost daybreak.”

            “Yes. We should get moving.”

            Without saying a word, Dasaf gathered what little bedding he had created and re-packed it in the donkeys’ panniers. Then he mounted with the Mulli and they were traveling again.

            “I heard you say Asan’s name,” the Mulli said.

            “Eavesdropping on my dreams, are you?”

            “It’s not hard to hear you.”

            Dasaf snorted. “It’s of no concern of yours what I dream about.”

            “You think I haven’t dreamt about him either?” the Mulli asked.

            “You have?”

            The Mulli raised his eyebrows, slouching on his horse and releasing her reins so that she could travel at a pace she liked. “I’ve known him since he was _eleven_. I worry for his life. He’s like my brother.”

            Dasaf frowned. “You would treat your brother like a servant?”

            “I treated Asan in the way that was proper. Under military supervision, it wasn’t exactly appropriate to treat him as one would a brother. But now? Now he is my brother, not my servant.”

            “Asan might not agree with you.”

            “Why would you say that?”

            Dasaf couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “You are very dim, Mulli.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means Asan loves you far more than he would a brother.”

            The Mulli stared at him a moment, then looked away with an expression of defeat. “I know.”

            “You figured it out?”

            “No. Asan told me before I left.” The Mulli bit his lip and began to play with the knot in his mare’s reins. Dasaf had no sympathy for him, not a shred. In fact, it took most of Dasaf’s willpower to keep himself from loathing the Mulli more at that moment than he ever had before.

            “And?” Dasaf finally asked when the Mulli’s silence was not adequate.

            “I never knew.”

            “Of course not.”

            “How was I to know? I didn’t even know he preferred men.”

            “There were plenty of clues, I’m sure.”

            “Oh _now_ I look back and I see them! But it didn’t even enter my mind. I thought Asan was simply proper, like how Elder Hassad taught him to be. He never had much contact with girls. I thought—I didn’t think! It wasn’t a concern of mine.”

            Of course it wasn’t. The Mulli was probably more concerned with the women he himself could conquer.

            “But it all makes sense to me now. Maybe it’s why he stayed so loyal when I didn’t deserve it. It makes me cringe to think of how I treated him, and I can’t even . . . I can’t even make it up to him. I _do_ love him, but not in the way he might prefer.”

            “Not at all?”

            The Mulli might have hit Dasaf if they were within striking distance. “What makes you think I’d be tempted?”

            “You did claim that one man was your _jusef_ the first time we met.”

            “I was _lying_ , and you know it.”

            “Yes, but perhaps there was a shred of tr—”

            The Mulli interrupted him with a barking laugh. Dasaf supposed that answered his question, but it didn’t quite raise his spirits like he thought it might. Even if the Mulli were entirely uninterested in Asan, that didn’t change how Asan felt. Asan had made it very clear to Dasaf who he wanted. Asan knew Raheed didn’t love him the way he liked; he had _told_ Dasaf that. It didn’t matter. Asan would rather yearn for Raheed’s impossible love than accept what Dasaf gave willingly. That was Dasaf’s own damn fault. He supposed it didn’t matter anymore. Dasaf didn’t expect to make it out of this battle alive.

            “Let me assure you, Dasaf,” the Mulli said, “I am entirely inclined toward ladies. If you don’t mind me asking—”

            “I probably will.”

            “—are _you_ inclined toward them at all?”

            “No.”

            The Mulli scrunched up his nose like a toddler. “Not at all?”

            “No.”

            “Not even Leyla?”

            Dasaf scoffed. “ _Especially_ not Leyla.”

            “She’s your sister-in-law. There’s no shared blood there. I always assumed—I mean, she speaks so highly of you and you both seemed close.”

            “She is my sister, be it by blood or no. My family would have liked for me to marry her, because her family has always been held in highest esteem by mine. But it fills my mouth with a rancid taste to think of it.”

            “So . . . it means she’s not betrothed to anyone in particular.”

            “I would shut your mouth now, Mulli, before I knock you from your horse and leave you here.”

            “I’m only curious!”

            “For your own means, I’m sure.”

            The Mulli sighed heavily. “You can think what you like of me, and I’ll think what I like of you. I think Asan could do _far_ better anyway.”

            “I’m sure Asan could do better than the Sumas of Khamal,” Dasaf bit back sarcastically.

            “You imprisoned him! That’s not entirely the most benevolent behavior.”

            “I ‘imprisoned’ him in that I gave him free reign of my alcazar, all the food and clothing he desired, and the freedom he hadn’t enjoyed under your command or anyone else’s.”

            “There were conditions to your generosity.”

            “Conditions that I assumed were best for him.”

            “How _presumptuous_ of you.”

            “I have learned from my failings. I expect nothing from Asan anymore, not even forgiveness. All I want for him is that he live a long and prosperous life. He need not look at me again if he doesn’t want to.”

            The Mulli’s gaze traveled far into the distance. “If we all live through this.”

            There was a long silence, broken only by the muffled thump of hooves striking dry earth.

            “Mulli, the man who cut off Asan’s ear . . . what is his name?” Dasaf finally asked.

            “General Yussam. An ass so big he puts those donkeys to shame.”

            “Why would he cut off Asan’s ear?”

            “Outside of him being an ass? He claimed Asan didn’t need it anyway.”

            Dasaf’s mouth tightened with rage. “Whatever other harm he has brought to Asan, I will duplicate it on him before I cut off his head.”

            “You’ll have to race me to that honor.”

            Dasaf glanced at the Mulli. He looked no less infuriated than Dasaf, and Dasaf felt a tinge of new respect for him.

            Along the horizon, a whirlwind of sand skimmed across the earth and upward into the citrus sky before blowing toward them. The horses bent their necks to brace against the gritty current, and Dasaf craned his head back to watch a vulture circle lazily above them.

 

* * *

 

            Raheed and Dasaf were met by scouts about a half-day’s journey from the camp. Six of them aimed crossbows at Dasaf until he tossed all of his weapons at his feet. A captain Raheed did not know patted down the Sumas to make sure he wasn’t hiding anything, then ordered him back onto his horse. Raheed was subjected to similar treatment, but they did not bind Raheed’s hands as they did Dasaf’s. Raheed knew Dasaf attempted to hide it, but the humiliation was clear in his expression. If all went well, he wouldn’t have to be humiliated for long. Raheed just hoped they didn’t mutilate Dasaf like they had Asan. They couldn’t kill him because of his value as a hostage, but that shouldn’t keep them from beating him about a bit. Raheed hoped Dasaf was prepared for that. Judging by his increasingly stony silence, Raheed suspected he was.

            They were led through the camp on the way to Yussam’s tent, a labrynth of tents, horses, camels, and training areas. Normally a few men would pass without notice, but Dasaf was noticeably Hahnar. Any soldier standing around stopped and stared at their procession, some ducking and whispering to their peers. It felt exactly as it had when Raheed found himself in front of a bunch of hostile Hahnars.

            Yussam’s tent was easily identifiable by its sheer size and the space around it. A tall fleabitten gray stallion was tied outside, being brushed down by a servant boy. The boy stopped and stared as Dasaf and Raheed dismounted and were led into the tent.

            Yussam was seated in a circle of officers, discussing strategy over wine. When Raheed and Dasaf entered, he immediately stood and sent all of his officers out. Just like the foot soldiers outside, the officers stared and murmured amongst themselves before finally clearing from the tent.

            “Well, well.” Yussam stood, grinning. “This is a guest I was not expecting. Murdi! Go grab that boy the Hahnars returned to us. I would like to confirm that this is indeed the Sumas of Khamal that I have in my tent.”

            One of the foot soldiers nodded and darted out of the tent.

            Yussam crossed the distance between Raheed and Dasaf, though Raheed might as well have been invisible. Yussam’s eyes were only for the Sumas. With a smirk, he slowly began to circle him, as if sizing him up for auction.

            “Raheed.” Yussam turned to Raheed at last, eyes glowing with satisfaction. “If this is indeed Sumas Darim Dasaf, you have truly proven yourself.”

            Raheed said nothing, because he didn’t want to call Yussam the son of a goat. It was all he could manage right now.

            “So, Sumas Darim Dasaf. Do you like my little army? Does it impress you?”

            “He doesn’t speak Aillic,” Raheed said.

            “Oh, no? Really. Interesting. Because he seemed to speak it just fine to that boy he sent back with one of my men’s heads.” Yussam turned to Dasaf again. “You speak Aillic, don’t you? I know the leaders of Khamal are learned men. Come now. Speak up for me.”

            Dasaf merely leveled him with the look of a man who couldn’t be bothered.

            “Proud, are we? Now is not the time to be proud, not during a surrender. I never could have imagined you would. I recall reading about your brother . . . what was his name? Hadish? Anyway, I heard he was a stubborn and proud character. At least until they cut off his head. Then I imagine he was just dead.” Yussam stepped closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “But proud men are not wise men, are they? You . . . _you_ are wise. Khamal cannot defend itself against Mulli might, and you know it. That’s why you’re here. You’re also here because you know that Mulli rule will always trump Hahnar rule, and Khamal has always hated those Hahnars beyond the mountain, haven’t they?”

            The tent flap opened again, admitting the boy with the crooked nose that Raheed remembered from before. Yussam drew him forward quickly and pointed to Dasaf.

            “Is this the man?” Yussam demanded.

            The young man nodded. “Yes, General.”

            “Look closely and be sure! I know all those Hahnars look alike.”

            The young man avoided Dasaf’s murderous glare. “That is him, sir. I would know him anywhere.”

            “And did he speak to you?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “In Aillic.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Ha! Of course he did. I’m not an idiot, Sumas Darim Dasaf. Now don’t you have anything to say to me?”

            Dasaf said nothing.

            “Where is Asan?” Raheed asked, exasperated. “Before anything happens, I want you to follow through on your promise.”

            “Asan? Ah, of course! He’s fetching me water right now. Not terribly effective at it with those broken fingers, but I do love to see him try.”

            Raheed quickly glanced at Dasaf. A muslce in the Sumas’s eye twitched, but he revealed nothing else.

            “Murdi! Go fetch that crippled servant.”  
            “Yes, sir!” The foot soldier and the boy with the crooked nose left in a rush.

            “Part of me thought you would not return, Raheed. I am partially disappointed. I was looking forward to a new saddle.” Yussam shrugged. “I suppose I’ll make do.”

            “What is to become of me?” Raheed asked. “I will be released too, I imagine.”

            “Oh no.”

            “What?”

            “You think I’d just let you go? No.”

            “You promised—”

            “I promised I’d let you _live_ , not that I’d let you _go_. No, clearly you have some skills that can still be of use to me. If you’ve accomplished this, I wonder what else you’re capable of. You will be reinstated as captain, unless you give me reason to do otherwise. You must have some clout with the people of Khamal in order to hold such sway.”

            “There was some . . . deception involved,” Raheed muttered, hoping that might explain how he managed to accomplish such a remarkable feat.

            A cruel smile slid along the general’s lips like oozing slime. “Perfect.” He turned to Dasaf. “I’ve done my research on you, Sumas. I know more about you and your city than you think. Surely you must think I’m an idiot, asking for you as a hostage when in fact you are not the true heir to the Khamal throne.”

            Raheed watched Dasaf’s eyes stretch minutely.

            “I know about your nephew, Sumas Darim Dasaf. Of course I do. I’ve always known. But you were the hardest to get. I knew that no matter what, you would stay behind the walls of your alcazar when faced with a threat. And I knew that you’d send the _truly valuable_ one off to be protected. Isn’t that right?”

            “What are you talking about?” Raheed asked.

            “Darim Altaf. That is his name, is it not?” Yussam asked Dasaf, ignoring Raheed. “He’s twelve, much too young to fight a battle. You also needed assistance protecting your alcazar, and so why not accomplish two things at once? You sent him to the Matij.”

            Dasaf’s eyes were blown open now.

            “Tell me, Darim Dasaf.” Yussam stepped close again, grabbing Dasaf’s jaw in his hand. “How much _gold_ does it take to buy a Matij chief’s loyalty?”

            Dasaf wrenched his face from Yussam’s grip, stumbling back several strides before being caught by the men behind him. They shoved him forward again, and Yussam clucked his tongue.

            “I’m general for a reason.” There was a sharp edge to his voice now, like a newly wetted blade. “I don’t invade cities unless I know I can win. I buy who I need, and you are the one dumb enough to expect _decency_ from a Matij Hahnar. The saddest thing is that you don’t even know your own men. What if I told you one of your closest advisors is an informant of mine? Oh, he was expensive, but Mullis can promise what no one else can deliver.”

            _Shallaf_ , Raheed thought immediately, though of course Dasaf had many advisors. Yet how many of them were close? Maybe Yussam knew everything—Raheed’s lie, Asan’s tryst with Dasaf, every nasty tidbit of gossip from within the alcazar. Raheed was doused in a pool of shame, because he hadn’t expected this and should have. Yussam was Mulli-by-blood, yes, but even a Mulli-by-blood did not become general from connections alone. He was a man who would do anything to win, even if it meant torture and corruption. No wonder he was such a darling of the empire.

            If Raheed was angry, it was nothing compared to the rage and dismay that rushed across Dasaf’s features. If Dasaf’s hands weren’t tied, Raheed imagined he would have torn Yussam’s head from his shoulders right there.

            “There must be _something_ you wish to say to me,” Yussam said. “Perhaps about the inevitable death of your nephew?”

            If Dasaf was tempted to speak, he was interrupted by the entrance of two foot soldiers and Asan. Asan didn’t even notice Raheed and Dasaf at first, as he was staring at the ground. His hair had been shaved off, leaving only an uneven dark fuzz in its place. There was a cut along his upper lip and a crescent-shaped bruise under his right eye. Those hadn’t been there when Raheed had left. Furthermore, his hands and ear did not look properly wrapped or attended to. Mostly likely the fingers would need to be broken again in order to be reset properly.

            Raheed had been furious over Yussam’s slimy schemes, but he was enraged now. If the fate of Khamal didn’t depend upon his act with Yussam, Raheed would have slit his throat, Dasaf be damned. The Mullis had taken Raheed’s sword, but he still had his dirk—it would be easy.

            “You said you wouldn’t hurt him!” Raheed snarled.

            “Not _much_. That servant of yours is slow and disobedient. His behavior warranted a few blows.”

            Raheed looked at Dasaf. Surely Dasaf was imagining a hundred gory deaths for the general. Raheed could tell by the muscles clenching in his jaw and hands.

            Finally Asan lifted his gaze and spotted Raheed. Raheed had expected some elation, but there was only despair. Then Asan’s eyes flickered to Dasaf and the despair was replaced with anger.

            _Why_? Asan signed viciously at Raheed. He could not move his fingers properly, but Raheed understood that much.

            _Trust me,_ Raheed signed low and around his hip so that Yussam did not see.

            Asan stepped forward, pausing briefly by Dasaf. Dasaf did not turn, but his eyes slid to the corners, and their gazes met for an instant. Asan ducked his head and rushed forward, heading for Raheed. Yussam grabbed him before he reached him.

            “Are you still not _my_ servant? How do you know I don’t want something?” Yussam barked.

            “Let him go,” Raheed growled. “We had a deal.”

            Yussam took hold of Asan by the one ear he still had left and pulled. Asan yowled before growing unnaturally quiet and submitting to the treatment, as if he were used to it. Raheed’s blood boiled. He didn’t care what happened to him, so he rushed forward and shoved Yussam. Asan stumbled back upon his release, nearly bumping into Dasaf.

            Yussam’s sword was instantly at Raheed’s throat.

            “I may be twenty years older than you, _bhanak_ , but I can still cut you open,” Yussam hissed. “Touch me again and I’ll remove your head _and_ his.”

            “Let him go,” Raheed repeated. “I brought you the Sumas. You release my servant.”

            Yussam pulled his sword away and returned it to its place at his waist. Then he jerked his head at a foot soldier, who left to do whatever business Yussam’s gesture had meant.

            “Very well, _bhanak_. The servant can go. Not sure where he can go. I’m taking Khamal, and the Hahnars will either kill him or enslave him.”  
            “I think he won’t mind trying his luck with the Hahnars.”

            “My men will bring your donkeys then. The cripple can have them.”

            Raheed went to Asan, pushing back his head so he could get a better look at his injuries. The wound where his ear had been had mostly scabbed over, but there were places that needed attending to. If only Asan could get to Khamal, Leyla might be able to administer aid.

            _Don’t worry_ , Raheed mouthed to Asan upon noticing his despondent look. _I know what I’m doing._

            Asan didn’t appear to believe him.

            They were herded out of the tent, everyone except Dasaf and the men guarding him. Raheed caught one more shared look between Dasaf and Asan before Asan and Raheed were shoved out into the sunlight. Raheed’s donkeys were still waiting there, their panniers refilled with water.

            “Here you are then,” Yussam said, throwing the reins at Asan. Asan couldn’t catch them with his deformed hands, so they fell to the ground. The men standing around Raheed chuckled. Raheed wanted to murder them all.

            “Go to the mountain pass,” Raheed told Asan aloud as he signed, _Dasaf and I have a plan._

            _Stupid plan_? Asan asked.

            They had stripped Asan of his dignity, but not all of his sense of humor. Raheed had to keep himself from chuckling. “Yes, the mountain pass we talked about.” _Don’t worry. Dasaf and I will be fine_.

            _I will go to Khamal_.

            “No,” Raheed replied. “It’s too dangerous.”

            “I think we’ve had enough chatter,” Yussam said. “Murdi, Kharil, show the cripple the way out.”

            Before the soldiers advanced, Asan quickly threw his arms around Raheed and hugged him as firmly as he could without the use of his fingers. Raheed pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before offering him an encouraging smile. _We will see each other again, promise_.

            A soldier took Asan’s arm and pulled him toward the donkeys. Asan’s uncertain gaze tracked Raheed until he was forced to face the direction he was yanked. Two soldiers walked in front while Asan dragged the donkeys behind him, limping just slightly. Raheed didn’t know what Yussam had done to cause _that_ , but he’d certainly pay for it later.

            “Back in the tent then,” Yussam announced. “I have so much planned. We can’t waste a moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH.
> 
> Yussam's a huge tool, but he's a pretty awesome villain, ya gotta admit.


	33. Bhanak

 

            Asan wanted to look back, but he feared slowing down, in case the soldiers might find reason to hit him again. Two men traveled closely behind him, and Asan was intensely aware of their presence. After all these Mullis had done to him, Asan couldn’t afford to let his mind wander.

            _Dasaf and I have a plan_ , Raheed had said. What plan included giving themselves over to the enemy? Asan had figured Raheed would return, but he hadn’t even humored the notion that Dasaf might come with him. Asan wanted to trust Raheed’s judgment, but at the same time he worried. He’d just spent a week alone with the general, and he’d suffered some terrible treatment as a servant. It made him shudder to think how they might treat Dasaf. It was almost enough to turn him around, but what good could he do anyway? He might ruin whatever _plan_ Raheed had. Asan hoped that it didn’t involve betraying Khamal. Raheed wouldn’t do that. Even if he’d be capable of deception with Dasaf, he’d never put Leyla in danger.

            The walk to the edge of the camp took what felt like an hour, but Asan didn’t walk well with the huge bruise on his knee from when he’d been struck with the wooden end of a spear. The only thing bracing him against the pain was the glimpses of Mulli soldiers behind him. Yet even the donkeys weren’t a suitable crutch. When a hand pushed his shoulder forward, Asan’s ankle twisted and he went down. The donkeys avoided him just fine, but someone’s toe knocked against his broken fingers. With a whine of pain, Asan curled into the balled position that had become so familiar to him lately. Someone kicked him in the side, and he wrapped his arms over his head, too afraid to rise in case someone nailed him in a more vulnerable region.

            The assault stopped suddenly, and Asan looked up. A familiar man was talking with the two escorting him, but Asan had trouble placing his face. Only when the man came forward and grasped Asan by the shirt did he remember who it was. _Corporal Waqas_. The corporal managed to get Asan to his feet, then brushed him off once he was upright.

            “Asan, what are you doing here?” Corporal Waqas asked, lips pressed into a thin, worried line. His forehead was parted by wrinkles.

            “Raheed,” Asan replied, then jerked his head toward the center of the camp.

            “But . . .”

            Asan was shoved forward again, and when the corporal complained, one of Asan’s escorts whispered something to him, pacifying him. But when Asan glanced over his shoulder, he saw Corporal Waqas watching his departure in bewilderment. Asan was glad the man wasn’t dead. As much as Asan hated soldiers, he’d prefer the least-awful ones outlive the wretched ones.

            By the time the bruise on Asan’s leg throbbed so badly he nearly couldn’t continue, they had reached the edge of the camp. It seemed abandoned so far out, causing Asan to wonder where everyone was. Training, perhaps? Either way, the sight of the empty desert was the most beautiful thing Asan had seen since his capture. Khamal was out there somewhere, and so was his camel.

            Asan looped the reins tighter around his wrist as best he could before taking a step forward. Yet someone grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, yanking him back. Asan turned to find one of the soldiers smirking.

            “You thought we’d just let a servant walk out of here with two valuable donkeys?” the man asked.

            Asan had no reply.

            The other soldier withdrew his sword from the scabbard at his waist. “We said we’d set you free, and some say life is a prison, eh?” He looked to his companion, and they both sneered.

            There were a million things Asan could have felt at that moment, but what came to him was rage. It was the rage that kept him alive when he was a beggar boy, because fear or despair had never been useful for survival back then. As much as Raheed had “civilized” him, there were parts of Asan that never died. He had spent a week in utter emotional turmoil, and this was his first glimpse of freedom. God help the man who wanted to take that from him.

            The soldiers must not have expected Asan to act so quickly, because the soldier’s reactions were slow. Adrenaline numbing the pain, Asan’s hand shot out and latched onto the wrist of the one soldier’s sword arm. Asan drew it forward and dug his teeth in as deep as they’d sink. With a yowl, the man tossed him off. The other leapt forward, blade glinting. Asan darted down and grabbed the sword the other had dropped. By now his arm was on fire with the pain of gripping the hilt, but Asan didn’t heed it. Asan held the weapon in front of him with two hands, backing toward the donkeys.

            “You little shit!” his attacker spat. He swung his sword and Asan danced out of the way. As he did so, his knee gave out underneath him again, sending him to the earth in a cloud of dust and excruciating agony. Despite the sparks that circled his vision, Asan was able to grasp a rock that poked into his hip when a shadow loomed over him. Before the soldier could stab him, Asan tossed the rock, striking the soldier across the shoulder.

            There was a brief moment when the soldier turned his face away, as if searching for the source of impact. A brief memory flitted into Asan’s mind like a spooked gazelle, providing a blurry glimpse of Darim Altaf before diving back into oblivion.

            _“Never look away. It’ll give your opponent the chance to slice your head off.”_

            Asan thrust his sword up with all the strength left in his unbroken fingers. He felt the blade sink into something heavy, but didn’t pause long enough to see what it was. When the soldier stumbled away, Asan threw his weight into his good leg and catapulted onto his feet. The other soldier approached him, bleeding from his wrist and cussing words Asan didn’t even bother to read. He hopped toward the closest donkey and threw himself across its back, thankful that it was so much shorter than a horse. The disadvantage was that this donkey felt no sense of urgency when Asan kicked it. In fact, it took several steps backward, flinging its head into the air. Asan scrambled for the lead that dragged from its halter, then slapped its rump with the leather strap at the end. The donkey threw a few crow hops before finally breaking into a quick trot, its companion following leisurely behind. Eventually Asan was able to coax the donkey into a short-strided canter, which was just fast enough to keep at least ten paces in front of the soldier. The donkey’s endurance vastly outdistanced the soldier’s, so when the soldier stopped short, Asan did not. Followed by a swirling trail of sand, Asan and his donkeys rode deeper into the desert, destination unknown.

 

* * *

 

            “You still look too small,” Leyla told Fasa as Fasa fiddled with the long cloak wrapped around her shoulders. “Maybe we should put padding underneath?”

            “What about armor?” Fasa asked hopefully.

            Leyla shook her head. “The men will need that.”

            “Can’t I get chainmail or something? I have this sword . . .” Fasa reached down and unsheathed the scimitar she’d been given. It wasn’t much of a weapon; there was rust along the blade and a hilt that twisted in her grip. But it was the most deadly thing Fasa had ever held, and it made her feel dangerous.

            “We barely have enough weapons to give to the women,” Leyla replied. “The metalsmiths have been working throughout the night just creating swords. Asking for armor would be too much.”

            “I could always wear a few more cloaks. Might add some breadth to my shoulders.”

            “You can barely organize what you have.”

            This was true. Fasa didn’t know how the men dealt with so much clothing. It was light and airy of course, but sometimes their desire to look regal outweighed what was practical. The turban kept slipping on her head, and she wondered if maybe she’d be asked to cut her hair like the rest of the Khamal women. Fasa wasn’t particularly attached to it, but at the same time, she’d hate to see it chopped off. After taking so many hits in her life, she was sure her scalp would be lumpy and misshapen anyway.

            “Do I get to ride a horse?” Fasa asked.

            “Only the few men within our ranks will be on horses.”

            Fasa frowned. “No fair.”

            “We want the men to be targeted. That way they’re the ones the Mullis gravitate toward. It is _your_ job, Fasa, to remain as discreet as possible.”

            Fasa had always been terrible at keeping her head down and mouth shut. Yet she supposed this time it was for a good cause and a good reason, so she’d have to do as Leyla asked.

            “What about you?” Fasa asked.

            “I’ll be joining you.”

            “You haven’t tried on a uniform yet.”

            “I’ve been too busy directing everyone.”

            Fasa smiled. “Perhaps you should be Sumas instead.”

            Leyla laughed lightly. “Trust me, I don’t envy my sister _or_ my brother-in-law for their duties. If we live through this, I am going to take a vacation to the mountains and sleep for a few weeks.”  
            “You can take Raheed with you. I’m sure he’d like that.”

            Leyla swatted Fasa across the head, the turban tumbling from her hair and rolling to her feet. Fasa laughed as she bent to retrieve it.

            “Are you going to jail me for my saucy tongue, shuman?” Fasa asked with a smirk.

            “I would, but we need you.”

            Smug, Fasa shoved the turban back down over her head, using her fingers to push errant curls up underneath the fabric. The mood did not stay light for long, especially once the door opened and Shallaf strode into the room.

            “There you are,” he said in his usual brusque manner. “Your mother is looking for you, Leyla.”

            “Alright.” Leyla turned back to Fasa. “I would try to put some sort of padding on your shoulders. If you find something that works, let me know and we’ll use that for the rest of the women.”

            Fasa nodded, and Shallaf stood aside to allow Leyla’s retreat. Briefly his eyes met Fasa’s before darting away. With a sweep of his cloak, he vanished from the room as well, leaving Fasa alone.

            Fasa sighed and adjusted her turban one more time. She had always dreamt of becoming a soldier, a woman who carved her own fate instead of being the victim of other’s. But the closer this battle approached, the more Fasa wanted to hide behind the skirts of another, like she once did as a child. The turban and sword provided her some bravery. If a man could do it, so could she. For the first time, she’d be fighting for those she cared about against men she despised. Perhaps it was time for some revenge. The Mullis hadn’t been directly responsible for what had happened to her mother, but she knew they might have had they the chance.

            Fasa unsheathed her sword again, just enough to look at the faded design along the grip.

            _For you, Mother_ , she thought. _I will fight for you._

           

* * *

 

            Dasaf’s captors transported him to another tent, this one smaller and less ventilated. Someone shoved him forward, but Dasaf was lucky to keep his footing. Shortly after he was able to turn around, the Mulli general slipped through the tent flap, followed tentatively by the Mulli and a few more soldiers. Dasaf had never been in the presence of so many Mulli men. Hell, he had never gone further from Khamal than occasional visits with the Matij. It was alarming to be watched by so many pale faces, all of which looked identical to him.

            “I would spend more time showing you around,” the Mulli general said, “but it seems I have a city to conquer. I plan on moving out tomorrow. But I don’t want to be inhospitable, so I can offer you some traditional welcoming gifts. Raheed!”

            The Mulli stepped forward, looking sheepish. Dasaf had been sure of the Mulli’s loyalty out in the desert, but watching him take orders from this man without protest gave room for more of Dasaf’s original doubts. If the Mulli told this general the truth, then all would be lost.

            “Yes?” the Mulli asked.

            “Am I not your general?”  
            “I suppose—”

            “ _Sir_ ,” the general barked.

            The Mulli pressed his lips together firmly. “Yes, _sir_?”

            “It is hot in this tent. Perhaps you’d like to help remove the Sumas’s cloak?”  
            The Mulli’s eyes narrowed, but he eventually stepped in front of Dasaf and began to gather handfuls of Dasaf’s cloak, unwinding it from around his shoulders and then folding it over his arm.

            “Hmmm.” The general tilted his head like a curious dog. Even outside of such circumstances, Dasaf would have hated this man. There was a wickedness in his features that Dasaf recognized in Jakil Ultar, the sort of feline playfulness that preceded the torturing of a helpless mouse. “No, I’m sure the Sumas is still much too warm. I think it will all have to go.”

            “Sir?” the Mulli asked slowly.

            “Have you forgotten Aillic during your travels, Raheed? I said disrobe him.”

            The Mulli turned and briefly met Dasaf’s gaze. Dasaf turned away first, jaw set. He knew that his role in this strategy required humiliation and probably torture. Bracing himself for it had not prepared him, however. His skin crawled at the idea of being stripped by anyone but Asan.

            “His hands are bound, sir,” the Mulli muttered. “It will be difficult.”

            “Then cut it off him. He’ll have no further use for his clothes.”

            With a sigh, the Mulli removed his dirk from his belt and grabbed a handful of Dasaf’s caftan. There was apology on his face, but Dasaf didn’t want to see it. Whether the Mulli regretted his actions or not didn’t matter.

            The last thing to be removed were Dasaf’s loose trousers. The Mulli hesitated at these, and Dasaf noticed the extreme discomfort on his face. If the situation had been lighter, Dasaf might have joked with him. _It won’t be the first time a man’s pulled off my trousers_. A morbid laugh bubbled up in Dasaf’s throat, but he choked it down. He knew that what followed maniacal laughter was hysteria, and Dasaf would prefer to keep that at bay.

            The Mulli finally cut the trousers from Dasaf’s body, leaving him utterly naked. Dasaf was comfortable with his own nudity, but seeing how the others reacted to it made him feel as if he were less than a man.

            “Oh, but the desert is _sweltering_. I’m sure our Sumas is still uncomfortable. Where is that—oh right, the servant is gone.” The general barked a cruel laugh before turning to his men. “Find me a servant. Tell him to bring a shaving blade.”

            One of the Mulli soldiers rushed out to fulfill this command.

            “What is the point of this?” the Mulli asked.

            “Mulli hospitality, Raheed. That is all.”

            A servant arrived as if by magic only moments later, carrying soap, a canteen of water, and a shaving blade. One of the general’s men took these, a younger soldier with an officer’s beard. He looked unsure but desperate to please in the way that only young, insecure noblemen could.

            “Shave the beard off,” the general ordered his young officer.

            “Yes, sir!”

            “Raheed, come stand by me. You don’t want to block Uthal’s light.”

            The Mulli ducked his head and walked away, hunching his shoulders. The youthful officer wielding his blade replaced him. When he moved to place it against Dasaf’s cheek, Dasaf lifted his leg and pressed it against the man’s groin—a silent warning. Just because he was handcuffed and naked didn’t mean he wasn’t still deadly.

            The officer shoved the blade under Dasaf’s chin, the sunlight catching the edge.

            “You behave or I’ll cut your neck,” he warned.

            Dasaf just smiled at him. He’d do no such thing. They needed Dasaf in order to take Khamal.

            “Alright, hold him down then,” the general ordered his men, his voice burdened with ennui. All of the soldiers except the Mulli grabbed Dasaf and forced him to his knees. Several hands grasped his face and tilted it so that the officer could begin to soap up his jaw and then scrape the blade along his skin. While there was no inherent rank in Dasaf’s beard like there might be for the Mullis, it was still a symbol of honor. Only the eldest men in an immediate family were given the right to grow them, and Dasaf had grown up seeing them as a sign of wisdom and experience, in his father and then later in Haadi. Even if the beard meant nothing to him, he knew how the Mullis saw it, and that felt dishonorable enough.

            The shave was crude, even nicking him in a few places. When it was done, the men released him and stepped away. The young officer looked exceptionally pleased with himself.

            “I think that’s enough for now,” the general said. “Let him settle in for a bit. Of course he’ll have to be tied. Uthal, if you don’t mind.”

            Uthal pulled Dasaf’s arms further behind him and then chained them to the post at the center of the tent. There was no tether to allow him movement, so Dasaf supposed there was nowhere to relieve himself outside of where he sat.

            This was how the Mullis left him.

           

* * *

 

            Yussam must have decided that without Asan’s assistance, Raheed would serve as a decent replacement. He hadn’t left Yussam’s side since the sun sank below the distant hills, and the inside of Raheed’s cheek was nearly ground bloody from all the times he bit it to keep himself from exploding. This man. _This man_. Raheed had never conceived of a hatred this vile. No wonder Mamid had drank and whored so much. Perhaps he needed to erase the memory of Yussam’s leadership.

            Uthal had established himself as Yussam’s darling, and Raheed had to applaud his cunning in this regard. He’d always been a clever little shit, and unfortunately Raheed realized that too late.

            After dining on milk, dried figs, some kind of bird, and flatbread (none of which was shared with Raheed), Yussam stood and began to dig through his chest of miscellaneous possessions. Raheed sat across the rug from a smug Uthal and two other officers who Raheed didn’t recognize. Neither of them looked entirely pleased that Uthal sat to Yussam’s right and not them. Raheed wished them all gory deaths.

            “Sir?” Uthal asked as Yussam continued to rummage.

            “Aha, here it is.” From within the chest, Yussam withdrew a long metal rod. At first Raheed thought it was a fire poker, but then he saw the flat end, where a tiny design was carved.      

            It was a branding iron.

            “Do you recognize this, Raheed?” Yussam asked..

            “No, sir,” Raheed replied.    

            “You should. Take a closer look.”

            Raheed would have preferred not to, but he took the rod that Yussam gave him and inspected the tip. His gut rolled, because he _did_ recognize it. He didn’t see the back of his neck much, but he felt it burning in his skin now—the brand of the _bhanak_. It was the symbol of Mulli Empire’s ownership.

            “This is the _bhanak_ brand, sir. May I ask why you have it with you?”

            Yussam took back the iron. “You never know when you might need such a thing. Sometimes we take new boys in our conquest. I like to mark them right away, just to be careful.”

            Most of the time Elders at the training grounds gave them _bhanak_ brands. It was thought to be a less traumatic experience, especially when there was milk, cookies, and immediate medical treatment afterward. Raheed wondered what the Elders would think if Yussam was just branding whomever he felt like out in the desert. It wasn’t very good for record keeping, and like all large empires, the Mullis loved their bureaucracy.

            “Raheed, you’re coming with me. Boys, finish your meal. I’ll be back soon.”

            Yussam dragged Raheed out of the tent and into the dark outside. They made a detour through several corridors of tents before finally coming across a large bonfire. Some of the men circling it made hasty bows and muttered honorary titles as Yussam marched past them straight to the fire. Nearby there was a pile of unlit torches, and Yussam grabbed one of these before shoving it into the depths of the blaze.

            “What are we doing, sir?” Raheed asked, nervous at the determination in Yussam’s face.

            Yussam didn’t answer him. Once the torch was lit, Yussam retreated, yanking Raheed back through the dark maze of tents before they reached the tent Raheed had been both expecting and dreading.

            “I don’t understa—”

            “Hold this.” Yussam shoved the iron at him, and Raheed reluctantly took it.

            Yussam parted the tent flaps with a hand before slipping inside. At the center of the tent sat Dasaf, nearly unrecognizable without his full beard. Shame burned Raheed’s face. Dasaf looked vulnerable now, naked in more ways than one. If someone had pointed to him and told Raheed he was the Sumas, Raheed might have laughed.

            “Hello there, Sumas,” Yussam trilled happily.

            Dasaf barely lifted his head, and only did that to glare at him.

            “So chatty! You really must restrain yourself.” Yussam stepped closer, placing Dasaf further into the glow of the torch. Finally he crouched, resting one elbow on a lifted knee. “There there, Darim. It could be worse. Take heart in the fact that I will spare _most_ of your people. Perhaps I will take the boys as some of my own. I’m sure the Mulli Empire wouldn’t be too thrilled over Hahnar boys in their ranks, but this is a changing world, is it not? Once we take the Hahnar Empire, we can’t just kill everyone. I say we’ll slaughter the men, take the women, and recruit the boys. How would that look to you? Hahnar boys marching under a Mulli banner?”

            Dasaf, of course, said nothing. Yet there was murder in his eyes.

            “I’m looking forward to fucking the prettiest Khamal woman in your beloved city. She might even like it.”

            Raheed wasn’t even shocked when Dasaf spit in Yussam’s face. He was shocked, however, when Yussam merely wiped the spit away with a flick of his hand, expression even.

            “That wasn’t very nice. It’s not the way to treat your future ruler. After all, you’ve surrendered to me. We’re kinsmen now, yes? Why, you’re practically one of us.” Yussam stood and turned to Raheed, a demented smile on his face. “Give me the iron.”

            “No,” Raheed muttered, stepping backward.

            “No? Is that what you said?”

            “What exactly do you have in mind?”

            “What I have in _mind_ is for a filthy _bhanak_ captain to know his fucking place and obey an order,” Yussam snapped. Clearly Dasaf’s sticky reply to Yussam’s treatment had not bounced off the general entirely. “I can still have your servant hunted down and brought back, mind you. There’s only so many places to search in a desert. Maybe I’ll cook him on a spit and make you eat his other ear before gagging you with his charred balls. How does that sound?”

            Raheed handed Yussam the iron.

            “Now, Raheed, you have two options. Option one is that you wield this. Option two is that I wield this and brand his fucking forehead. Which do you choose?”

            “I . . .” Raheed’s eyes flickered to Dasaf before returning to Yussam. He gulped loudly. “I can’t.”

            “Then it’s his forehead then? Or maybe his ass like I would a cow.”

            Raheed held out his hand. Yussam gave the iron back to him. As Raheed’s intestines slithered into his throat, he placed the end of the iron in the blaze flickering on the end of Yussam’s torch. As Yussam stepped aside, Raheed stepped forward. In front of his chest, he signed, _I’m sorry_ to Dasaf, but Dasaf didn’t seem to notice or care.

            After a deep breath, Raheed crossed the distance between him and Dasaf and used a hand to force Dasaf’s head forward. He couldn’t think of a non-humiliating place to put the brand, so he decided on the location of Raheed’s, except a bit lower and to the left of the spine. Raheed knew he had to be quick in order to inflict the least amount of pain, so he didn’t allow himself to think too hard. He jabbed his arm forward, pressing the hot iron against the upper plane of Dasaf’s shoulder. Dasaf let out a muffled cry, but otherwise he seemed to handle it well. Raheed kept it there long enough to ensure a clean burn, though with the scent of burning flesh in his nostrils, it was difficult not to yank it away immediately. When he did, he dropped the iron to the ground and stumbled away, holding a hand to his nose.

            “You should be thankful,” Yussam said as Dasaf breathed harshly through flared nostrils. “If you were an ordinary prisoner, I would have beaten you, castrated you, and dumped you out into the desert so that the vultures could pick apart your bones. But I need you to conquer a city.” Yussam smiled. “So I will do all those things _afterward_. For now, please enjoy being one of us.” He spread his arms wide. “Welcome to the Mulli Empire.”

           

* * *

 

            They rolled out the next morning.

            Raheed’s horse was returned to him, but Dasaf’s was given to Uthal, who acted like a prince atop it. Dasaf’s tent was one of the last to be taken down, but Dasaf was given neither shoes nor clothing. Instead, he was tethered to Yussam’s saddle and forced to walk. Raheed tried to follow him in such a way so that Ahmbra might provide shade, but he didn’t want the others thinking he was sympathetic to Dasaf’s plight. After all, he was supposed to be Dasaf’s enemy. Their strategy hinged on Yussam believing that Raheed hated Dasaf more than he hated Yussam.

            With an army of twenty-five thousand, travel did not happen quickly. By the time night fell, they were still maybe four or five days away from Khamal. They continued on for a few more hours in darkness before finally setting up a temporary camp. When Yussam and Uthal were busy ordering others around, Raheed slunk away to find Dasaf, who had been chained to a stake driven into the ground. It was hard to see in the dark, but it offered a chance of privacy, which would have never happened in the daylight.

            “Dasaf,” Raheed whispered as he approached.

            “Come to gloat, Mulli?” Dasaf asked. Well, at least his disdain for Raheed hadn’t dimmed at all. That was a good sign, Raheed supposed.

            “Do you need lotion for your skin?” Raheed asked. “Your feet, maybe?” After all, Dasaf had been walking barefoot midday along sunbaked earth and sand. And even his dark complexion would not protect him from the intensity of the sun.

            “Bring me some pheasant and hookah while you’re at it,” Dasaf replied.

            “This is not a time for _joking_.”

            “Says you. I’m having a _marvelous_ time. Aha, ha!”

            “ _Shhhh_.” Raheed sighed. Clearly the heat had affected more than Dasaf’s skin and feet. “I’m only trying to help.”

            “Were you ‘helping’ when you branded me too?”

            “Would you have rathered Yussam branded your forehead?”  
            Dasaf didn’t have an answer for that. Raheed looked over his shoulder, to make sure no one was watching too closely. Maybe if he threatened Dasaf loudly it might allay suspicion. Then again, that would also attract attention.

            “I’m sure you don’t trust me,” Raheed said finally.

            “I _certainly_ don’t trust you.”

            “Well, try. You’ve met Yussam. You know what an absolute _charmer_ he is. You really think I hate you more than Yussam? Don’t think so highly of yourself!”

            “Oh yes. I’m naked, branded, and feel as if my skin is going to burst into flame at any moment. I am certainly thinking rather highly of myself right now.”

            Raheed saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he huffed and stood. “Fine. God forbid I attempt to help.”

            Dasaf merely grunted, so Raheed drifted away.

 

* * *

 

            The Mullis had invented a rather clever game to play with Dasaf. Or, Dasaf supposed, a game to play at his expense. The general had transferred Dasaf’s tether to the young officer, and so the officer amused himself by trotting his horse forward too quickly for Dasaf to keep up. Then Dasaf would fall, the Mullis would laugh, and a few would even toss pebbles as he attempted to stand up. Oh, it was such good _fun_. The sun had cooked Dasaf’s mind to the point that even he laughed. They thought him crazy, a title he welcomed. Better crazy than pathetic. Oh, if his brother saw him now. Haadi would slit Dasaf’s throat, just to save his family the shame. Dasaf wouldn’t stop him. He had reached many low points in his life, but never anything like this. Advisors whispered about him and peasants upbraided his politics in the streets, but that had been the extent of his humiliation. He had to congratulate the Mullis on their ability to render him subhuman. Surely they were doing God’s work.

            Dasaf waited for his feet to melt. He waited for someone’s blade to cleave his head from his shoulders. He waited for the worst as well as the inevitable. He nearly forgot why he was here, that this was not the end. If only Khamal was able to fool the Mullis, all these men would be dead by the next day. Dasaf would have liked the chance to murder them himself, but there were too many, and they all looked alike. The only solution was to lock them inside a house and burn it down.

            As the day progressed, Dasaf’s detailed fantasies of revenge disintegrated into more desperate thoughts. Whenever he felt his legs give out beneath him, memories of his mother forced him to stand. She had suffered in worse ways than him at the hands of Mullis. He would not dishonor her by giving in so quickly. He avoided thinking about what Haadi or his father would say, or how Shallaf might see him at this moment. It was better to think of those who would offer him sympathy, who might welcome him into an embrace. Wherever Asan was, Dasaf hoped he was safe. He hadn’t agreed to be a prisoner for Asan’s sake, but it was an advantage of the plan. They had broken Asan’s fingers, cut off his ear, shaved off his hair . . . Asan had suffered more. Dasaf had to be stronger.

            By the time the sun sank in the sky, Dasaf wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue. With every stride his legs shook. He hadn’t been given more than a sip of water since that morning, and of course there was no food in his stomach. He’d never been in want of water or food, so his body was not used to it. Twice he fell, only to be dragged along behind the officer’s horse until he managed to get his feet underneath him again. Now he knew the fall was coming again, judging by the tether growing increasingly taut. The officer was deep in conversation with someone riding next to him, seemingly oblivious. Dasaf faded even further, stumbling on a rock that jammed itself into his blistered heel.

            Suddenly a shadow fell over him. Dasaf looked up through narrowed eyes at the rider beside him, waiting for another onslaught of pebbles. At first he thought it was Raheed, but Raheed was far ahead, kept under close watch of the general. This was a younger man, a lower-ranked officer on a short gray mare.

            “Here.” The man shoved a canteen at Dasaf, pushing his horse closer against Dasaf until Dasaf realized he could use the horse’s shoulder as something to lean on. Dasaf used the rest of the slack in his tether to grab the canteen and drink from its contents. The water was stale and warm, but it might as well have been water fresh from a cool spring. Dasaf gulped nearly half of it before handing it back. Under normal circumstances he might have thanked the man, but he wasn’t in a particularly thankful mood toward any Mulli at the moment.

            The man took back his canteen, then withdrew his horse to join the ranks. Some accosted him while others slapped his hand as he passed. Dasaf didn’t care either way. He returned to his dreary march, hoping that his family, as well as Asan, would never have to endure this treatment at the hands of Mullis.


	34. A Key

**Chapter Thirty-Four: A Key**

 

            Asan had considered heading for the Hahnar Mountain pass, but then thought better of it. He didn’t know what Raheed’s “plan” was, but he was certain that Khamal was in trouble. So Khamal was where he headed.

            After forcing his donkey into a gallop for a mile or so, Asan allowed it to walk, but not for long. He kept his pace hurried, in case the man Asan left behind reported to his superiors that Asan needed to be hunted down.

            Only on the second day did Asan finally allow himself to breathe, if only just a bit. He was exhausted, as were his donkeys. He had nothing to feed them, but he allowed them both sips of water taken from the pack donkey’s panniers. There was still some food leftover, though not much. He scraped out what little dried fruit and mutton he could, then decided to walk. It would be easier for the donkeys to travel long distances that way.

            When night fell, Asan finally allowed himself the time to look at his wounds properly. The cut on his lip had stitched itself up, and the bruise on his eye was tender but fading. His fingers were hopeless. He tried to use the good ones, but they knocked against the broken ones, setting his hand ablaze with pain. The only fix was to re-break them so that they healed correctly, but he didn’t have the knowledge to know how one might do that. He had swabbed some of Raheed’s wounds, but he was not a medic. Only Leyla could offer him proper treatment, and who knew if he’d even see her again. For a normal man, broken hands would have been devastating enough. But Asan _spoke_ with his hands. Yussam might as well just cut Asan’s tongue out.

            Thinking about it filled Asan with such rage and terror that he felt tears gather in his eyes. He had managed all week without shedding a drop, mostly because he knew how Yussam would appreciate that. No, Asan had buried his emotions deep, drawing upon what Elder Hassad had taught him about meditation and controlling his temper. Now that he was finally alone and mostly safe, he let himself cry, just to relieve the pressure. After wiping the moisture from his cheeks, he remounted his donkey and they continued their journey for Khamal.

 

* * *

 

            Khamal rose before them like a red dragon. Raheed had of course seen its front gate several times, but never with an army of twenty-five thousand at his back. With such numbers, he knew it was a formidable fortress, but nothing that Mulli power couldn’t tear down.  It was eerily quiet as well, as if they were encountering an abandoned city with nothing but ghosts to conquer. He could see why the Hahnars would want this land, considering its sheer majesty. From the outside, no one would imagine the fertile lands that resided in the mountain basin, as the exterior side of the cliffs was mostly dirt and some scattered shrubs. Whoever had built the walls took this into consideration and made the façade look as equally uninviting.

            “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Yussam said.

            Raheed had no reply, and Yussam probably hadn’t been expecting one.

            “Alright, front line forward!” Yussam barked, twirling his horse around and riding through the parting soldiers. “They’re supposed to be surrendering, but I don’t take any chances. Bring the left wing catapults forward and load them.”

            As the army swarmed over itself like ants, there was no movement detectable from beyond the walls. That was until the iron portcullis at the base of the wall began to lift. Even from their distance, the gate was so massive that even men at the back might be able to see it. Yussam held up a hand to halt the bustling men, then kicked his horse forward. He called upon his officers as well as a slew of foot soldiers to join him in the march forward, as now several figures could be seen exiting the city, all riding horses. Raheed’s throat closed, but he somehow kept breathing.

            There were twenty riders that rode out to meet them, and from what Raheed could see, they were all men. Most of them covered their faces, but they rode too well for inexperienced women. Raheed hoped they were still keeping to the original plan. It was foolish of him to look for Leyla, as if she would be one of those to make negotiations with the Mulli army. No, he hoped she was tucked away somewhere safe.

            The Mullis and Khamal Hahnars spoke for a while. Raheed could only hear brief mutterings on the wind, but he kept watching in fear of missing something important. Of course Dasaf was nowhere to be found. He was being held toward the back of the troop, protected in case Khamal decided to go back on its word. Finally the Hahnars dismounted. Their horses were taken, and their wrists were manacled. Raheed knew they’d be butchered the moment the Mulli army was inside the gates. There was nothing he could do to warn them, but he supposed they knew the risk in riding out there. They must have been some brave men to make the sacrifice.

            The army began to move forward, shields up and spears thrust forward. Archers kept their crossbows loaded while foot soldiers kept their hands on their swords. The portcullis into the city remained open, even as the army pulsed forward. Soon the walls loomed over them, throwing them in shadow. Raheed craned his neck back in hopes of seeing archers atop the walls. He saw a few masked figures look down on him, but they were too far away for him to see who or what they were.

            Soon the iron mouth of Khamal began to swallow the Mulli army as soldiers funneled through its gate. Yussam and Raheed rode in the center, waiting. Yussam appeared to be expecting some sort of booby trap, because he told all the men to watch for hot pitch or volleys of arrows. The strongest soldiers were broken into sections so that if one section was cut down, another could easily takes its place. The tension in the Mulli soldiers was visible, so much that Raheed almost wished that Khamal _would_ immediately strike back and drain vats of steaming oil on top of them all. Of course, if they did this, their Sumas would certainly pay for it.

            The alcazar was the ultimate acquisition, and one had to ride up narrow streets in order to reach it atop the hill. Before this was executed, Yussam demanded that all the soldiers positioned along the ramparts descend to the streets and submit to capture. For the first time, Raheed was able to see the soldiers lining the ramparts with some semblance of detail, and if they were women, he had to give them credit for playing their part well. From where he sat, he couldn’t tell if they were women or men, and he hoped that Yussam couldn’t either.

            Once the soldiers came down from the ramparts, they were surrounded and chained together, rendering them useless. After their acquisition, Yussam demanded that those guarding the alcazar do the same.

            Raheed pushed his horse through the fray, trying to wind his way closer to the Khamal prisoners. Some of the Mulli soldiers shoved them and then spat at them once they fell, but Raheed barked at the perpetrators and stopped the treatment. One man tried to wrestle a soldier’s shemagh away from his (her?) face, but Raheed struck him with the blunt end of a spear and put an end to it.

            “We’re just roughing them up a bit,” argued one petulant soldier.

            “Pay attention or lose your life,” Raheed snarled back. “We have time for play later.”

            All in all, it was the quietest takeover of a city that Raheed had ever witnessed. Usually cities did not surrender without some sort of fight, but Khamal fell officially once the alcazar doors were pulled open and more soldiers streamed out, hands behind their heads and gazes cast downward. The alcazar was Yussam’s.

           

* * *

 

            “Where are all the women? That’s my question.”

            “They probably got them out before we came.”

            “Well, the general’s having the right wing raid the city. Mayhaps we’ll find something of interest.”

            Raheed strode past several groups of gossiping soldiers, many of who were already celebrating with the wine found in the alcazar’s cellar. By now the alcazar was teeming with Mulli men, some of their arms filled with whatever gold trinkets they could pilfer from empty rooms. Furniture was torn apart and gardens were reduced to rubble, not because it was necessary but because the Mullis were drunk on success and wanted to dominate Khamal’s landscape in whatever way they could. Some had even taken to scratching tiles off of the murals and hammering holes through beautiful lattice windows, defacing centuries of historical architecture.

            Meanwhile, all of the Khamal soldiers—all seven thousand of them—were escorted down to the dungeons and chained in there, given neither food nor water. Raheed still didn’t know if they were men or women, as he hadn’t been given the chance to really look. But he didn’t see any trace of Leyla or the other women anywhere. Even the servants were missing, and Raheed let the Mullis believe that they had fled. Perhaps they had. He had no idea.

            By the time night fell, Yussam declared their efforts a success and ordered a feast to commence from his seat in the throne room. There was food found in the kitchens, but much of it had been raided, so there wasn’t much from which to choose.

            “We’ll get fresh meat then,” Yussam said. “Butcher that Hahnar’s horse and then find us some goats.”

            Raheed couldn’t stand around and watch it. He had no idea where Dasaf had been taken, and there was no chance of getting into the dungeon to perhaps talk to the imprisoned soldiers. The only thing he _did_ know was where the Khamal army would be hiding if in fact the plan were still in motion. As much as his curiosity dared him to seek them out, he didn’t dare. Dasaf’s bedchamber was crawling with drunken celebratory Mullis, he was sure.

            At a loss of what to do, he mounted his horse and rode out of the alcazar, headed for the city below. Maybe he could find a few idiots to boss around, as he was sure they’d wandered down here by now to accost whatever local they could find. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a few men lingering far behind—Yussam’s spies, most likely. Clearly Yussam didn’t trust him.

            Raheed had only traveled to the arched entry into the city before he heard a woman shriek, followed by raucous laughter. There was a woman just past childbearing age running down the street with bare feet, clutching what looked like a baby to her breast. Several Mullis, all of them young, pursued her probably enjoying their first victory. When the woman saw him, she balked and darted down an alley, and Raheed urged Ahmbra into a canter to block the way from the men.

            “Where’d she go?” demanded the one.

            “You’re not allowed to be down here,” Raheed snapped at them.

            “Who are you?” snapped another.

            Raheed hadn’t had the chance to shave recently, making his position murky. He still wore a captain’s pin on his cloak though, a present from Yussam. “I’m Captain Raheed. I think it best you return to the alcazar, where you _should_ be.”

            “There aren’t any women in the alcazar.”

            “Oh, I’m sure your friend there would make a convincing woman with enough rouge.”  
            The men found his jest funny, though they still kept trying to dart past him.

            “General Yussam says that he will position soldiers in the city tomorrow. For now he wants everyone up by the alcazar, setting up camp.”  
            “I want a Hahnar woman.”

            “And I want a tiara made of gold, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.” Raheed unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the tallest foot soldier. “Do I need to persuade you with this?”

            The men looked at each other, then grumbled and slunk away. When Raheed looked down the alley, he found it empty. He hoped the woman found somewhere safe to hide, if only for a few days.

 

* * *

 

            By the next morning, Leyla smelled fire.

            “What do you think they’re burning down?” Fasa whispered to Leyla. It was too dark to see anything down here, and Leyla couldn’t believe that they’d been so cold-hearted as to imprison Raheed in such a place.

            “Must be something close if we can smell it down here,” Leyla replied.

            Fasa’s hand squeezed Leyla’s. “We may not have a city to return to.”

            “We can always rebuild. I’m most worried for Dasaf.”  
            The women had been fortunate in that once they were imprisoned, they were mostly left alone. It seemed the Mulli soldiers were more interested in ransacking the alcazar and the outlying buildings than they were in torturing Hahnar soldiers, though Leyla knew they couldn’t stay occupied for long. Eventually they’d wander down here to see what fun could be had with Hahnars, and that was the moment Leyla dreaded. She simply hoped the others knew what they were doing.

            “You didn’t happen to bring a small flame with you?” Fasa asked. “It’s freezing down here.”

            “Let’s hope it stays that way. I’d rather we not be burned alive.”

            “I’m also hungry.”

            “Best get used to that.” The water they’d been given had been foul, little better than urine. Leyla didn’t trust it, so while other women dared drink it, Leyla suffered through her own thirst. She didn’t think she’d die before the Khamal men showed themselves, but that was only if everything went according to plan.

            “I wish I knew what was happening on the surface, with Raheed and the rest. Are you worried about your sister?”  
            “Of course I am,” Leyla murmured. She had so much worry she didn’t know where to point it all, but much of it revolved around her family and Raheed. She hoped that her sister was safe with Altaf. Leyla did not trust the Matij, but they were preferable to any Mulli. “But she is strong, stronger than me. She will prevail.”

            If only Leyla could believe her own words.

 

* * *

 

            After shaking the men trailing him, the next conundrum Raheed faced were the men in Dasaf’s bedchambers. Some of the officers had claimed the room as their own, and Raheed could hear them laughing from inside, plumes of hookah smoke floating through the crack in the door. Raheed imagined the officers in there were higher ranking than him, and therefore not easily persuaded.

            But Raheed had been in the military long enough to know how men’s minds worked. He reached for the door and pulled it open. Indeed, there was a colonel, a brigadier general, and a major, none of whom would care much for what Raheed had to say about their drinking, smoking and gambling, from the looks of it.

            Raheed cleared his throat loudly. Only one of the men looked up, the brigadier general.

            “What is it?” he snapped. “What are you doing in here?”

            “Excuse me, sir, but I just heard word that the men have found some young Hahnar women. I’ve seen some of the foot soldiers squabbling over them.”

            “What?” Several heads went up. Even slowed by wine and merriment, _women_ was all it took to garner a soldier’s attention.

            “I thought to come alert you, so that you might restore order. Truly, it’s appalling the way they act—”

            “Where did you see this?” the colonel asked, standing.

            “In the main plaza, sir. I do hope you plan on disciplining the men. It is no way for them to act on enemy territory!” Raheed decided it best to play the morally outraged rookie officer because it was the caricature most easily believed.

            “Oh, yes, of course, _order_. Come on, men. We’ll need all of us to sort them out!”

            The men all smirked and climbed to their feet. It didn’t take them very long to shove Raheed aside and clamber for the fastest route to the main plaza. Within moments, Dasaf’s bedchamber’s only occupant was the hovering cloud of tobacco smoke.

            Raheed smirked and darted through the room and into the garden. He glanced back once more to make sure he was alone before climbing onto the alcove. The cushions had been stolen, the more visible shelves looted and emptied. All the oranges that grew on the tree near the center had been eaten or trampled. The Mullis always told tales of Bhajar’s beauty, but Raheed imagined they’d ruin it if they ever got there.            

            Luckily the soldiers were not so thorough as to catch the hidden compartment in the alcove wall. It took Raheed some huffing and straining to open it, but once he had, he quickly shoved himself through and closed it tightly behind him. He was surrounded by a darkness so thick it felt as if the world had ended. When he reached out, his hands scraped against the eroded carvings in the wall, so Raheed used them as his guide. He tripped several times, but he continued, knowing he didn’t have much time.

            Raheed must have walked for ten minutes in absolute blackness before he spotted a flicker of light. With that as his focal point, Raheed quickened his pace until the light molded into the shape of a torch. They were here. The plan hadn’t changed. Raheed couldn’t have felt more relieved.

            “It’s Raheed!” Raheed called into the cavernous mouth of the crypts, afraid they might shoot him if they saw him coming.

            “Mulli,” came the sharp reply, probably Shallaf. Raheed hadn’t missed him, at least.

            Raheed walked until he finally met the torchbearer and his companions, one of which was indeed Shallaf. Now that Raheed’s eyes had adjusted, he saw vague shapes everywhere, huddled together in the crypts and lit by the occasional torch. Excitement coursed through his veins at the thought of thought of revealing themselves. He could just imagine the stupid look on Yussam’s face when he realized he had the wrong army locked up in the dungeon. Raheed knew the expression wouldn’t last long, because Raheed would be one of the first waiting to cut his throat.

            “You’ve not been followed?” Shallaf asked, his usual cheerful self. Raheed couldn’t help but wonder if this was the advisor who had betrayed Khamal. There were many so it could be anyone, but Raheed was cautious to trust him. Yet whom else could he trust? No one else spoke Aillic, so Shallaf was his only option.

            “No.”

            “You’re sure?”

            “I’m not an idiot. No, I haven’t.”

            Shallaf glanced at one of the other men, who nodded. Raheed noticed their presence as well.

            “Perhaps it best we talk alone?” he asked Shallaf in a whisper, even when he doubted the other men could speak Aillic.

            “Why?”

            “Because there is a traitor in the ranks, and it’s one of the advisors.”

            Shallaf’s hand immediately went to the grip of his sword as his eyes turned into mere slits. “Impossible.”  
            “It’s true. Somehow Yussam found out about Altaf’s departure for the Matij. He said he gathered this intelligence from an advisor of Dasaf’s.”

            “No Khamal man would betray the Sumas. We have all pledged our lives to his.”

            “It is _someone_.”

            “I would be more likely to believe it is _you_ , Mulli dog.”

            Raheed rolled his eyes in frustration. When would the slew of accusations end? Hadn’t he proven trustworthy so far? Even if he were a traitor, he never would have put so much work into it. He could have just as easily betrayed Khamal when he turned in Dasaf and been done with it.

            “Yussam said he paid off the Matij.”

            _This_ Shallaf seemed more capable of believing. His lips thinned. “None of this is good news.”

            “No, not really."

            “Where is Dasaf?”

            “Imprisoned and hurt, but alive.”

            “And the women?”

            “Jailed, but also alive. They couldn’t have been found out or else there would be mass panic.”

            “You’ve not seen them?”

            “No.”

            “Then what have you been doing all day?” Shallaf asked.

            “Eating sweets and shopping for new shoes, obviously,” Raheed snapped back. “Yussam is watching me when he can. He suspects me, and I don’t want to ruffle any feathers. Now is not the time to question my loyalty. Everything I said would happen has, so I’d suggest you put a little faith in me.”

            “Now is the time to put the _least_ amount of faith in you.”

            “I don’t have much time. I’d prefer to postpone the bickering.” Raheed glanced over his shoulder. “I need to know when you plan on showing yourselves.”  
            “We would want the soldiers to be concentrated in one location. Makes it easier to take them out.”

            Raheed nodded. “Very well. In two days at sunrise, Yussam is planning on executing Dasaf. I’m sure he will make everyone watch.”

            Shallaf’s face was difficult to see in the dark, but even Raheed noticed the flash of hatred that flickered across Shallaf’s features. “That is cutting it very close.”

            “You could attack at night when some men sleep, but they will be scattered all across the alcazar. The execution of the Sumas will be the only thing that will bring them together. Many are out right now burning down houses and scouring the city, looking for women to steal and men to butcher.”

            “We must be sure the women are safe. There is much distance between here and the dungeon, and we must secure them before our secret is revealed.” Shallaf turned to one of the men behind him, who then darted into the darkness. When he returned, he clutched a velvet pouch in his hand.

            “This is a master key,” Shallaf said, opening the pouch’s drawstring and pulling out a small skeleton key, its tiny head fashioned into the shape of a scorpion. “If you can slip it to someone in the dungeon, then they will be free to either run or protect themselves once our secret is out.”

            Raheed took the pouch from Shallaf once Shallaf had dropped the key back inside, then tucked it into a pocket.

            “One more thing.” Shallaf returned to face the man who had retrieved the skeleton key, only to be given something else. It looked like a corked bottle of aged wine, but Raheed knew better.

            “This is a concoction of Leyla’s. It is a slow poison, one that presents itself with innocuous symptoms much like those brought about by ill-prepared food. In small amounts it will make a man sick, but add in more than a few drops and you can slowly kill him.”

            As Raheed’s memories were only of Leyla’s remedies, it shocked him a bit to learn that her knowledge extended into darker corners. Yet he was also impressed and slightly aroused by it.

            “If you add this to some wine, you will weaken those we wish to fight. It might not arouse suspicion, but it will make killing Mullis easier.”

            By this point, Raheed hadn’t directly caused harm to any of his Mulli brethren. He knew he would when he had to, but he’d been avoiding it so far. Until now, his treachery had remained at the back of his mind, negligible when working to save Asan’s life. Yet now the full force of it hit him—he would be more than a traitor after this. He wasn’t just leading the Mullis into a Khamal trap—he would be actively poisoning them. And while there were many he despised, he also knew that so many were clueless boys, brainwashed by an empire to fight a war they’d never win. He would be poisoning and ultimately killing boys like Jhali, Kavin, and Habib, whose deaths had haunted and changed him. Those Hahnars he has so despised long ago were exactly what he would become if he went through with this. 

            “I think it is madness to trust you,” Shallaf said after Raheed tucked the bottle under his elbow and out of sight. “But you are the only one who can blend in with Mullis.”

            “You’re better off trusting me than your advisors.” When Shallaf didn’t respond, Raheed asked. “Have you any word from the Matij or Malika?”

            “No.”

            “What if the Matij have killed them all?”

            “Then it is even more imperative that we take back our city and our Sumas,” Shallaf said, voice as cold as the crypts where they stood. “At the cost of every Mulli neck I get my hands on.” He paused. “Sunrise, Mulli. Only then we will see where your nature lies.”

           

* * *

 

            When Raheed uncorked the bottle Leyla had prepared, he held the lip of it to his nose. It had a slightly sweet scent, but nothing nefarious. To think that Leyla held the power to kill him all this time, even when he’d been just a breath away from death. She’d saved him, despite all odds.

            He supposed it was time to finally repay that debt.

            The night was filled with fire, laughter, and the smell of roasting meat. It was difficult to sulk in the shadows, especially when he knew others were probably looking for him. Yussam would be wondering where he was by now, and he probably had already sent men off to look for him. He would have liked to have Asan’s knowledge of the alcazar, as Raheed became lost easily. Fortunately, his terrible sense of direction led him to a dark storage area where several wine barrels had been dragged up from the cellar. Raheed uncorked what he could and dribbled some of Leyla’s poison into them. He wasn’t sure if the men would ever drink this wine, but Raheed took advantage of what opportunities he had.

            Near the wine stood several shelves filled with wooden goblets and empty bottles, dusty with disuse. Raheed set to work filling several bottles with the tainted wine, then one with wine he had not yet spoiled. He dug his knife into the cork of the one without poison, just to make sure he did not lose track. After setting them all in a nearby mop bucket to make for easier carrying, he began to look for the dungeons, as he still had no good idea of where they were.

            Several tipsy foot soldiers gave him conflicting directions, but eventually Raheed found his way down a steep incline into what looked like some sort of official building, perhaps a courthouse. There were men everywhere, some standing stoic and alert while others laughed and ate scraps of meat with greasy fingers. Raheed barely made it to the entrance of the courthouse before he was apprehended.

            “Ah,” Raheed said to the sour-faced lieutenant. “I brought wine.”

            “You are Captain Raheed, yes?”

            “Uh . . .” Was this a rhetorical question? Raheed would have liked to know so that he could tell a convincing lie.

            “General Yussam said you might be wandering this way.”  
            “He did?”

            “He said to turn you away should you show.”

            “What? Why?”

            The lieutenant shrugged but supplied no reply outside of that.

            “Would be a shame to turn me away, considering the gifts I’ve brought.”

            “We will take the wine, but I suggest you leave.”

            “I want to see the prisoners.”

            “No one is allowed to see the prisoners.”

            “Not even one? I find it hard to believe you haven’t taken upon yourselves to torment at least _one_ man.”

            The lieutenant’s face was stony, but his eyes slid briefly to the right. Raheed glanced over his shoulder and found one Hahnar tied just beyond the entrance into the courthouse, his back slick with blood and his head doused in wine that the Mulli soldiers had certainly dumped on him. Sick as the scene was, Raheed was grateful that they’d chosen one of the real men to torture. Raheed assumed it was probably one of the few to greet General Yussam upon their arrival.

            “Are you going to kill him?”

            “Not yet, the general’s orders. We’re just pushing him around a bit. Might exchange him for someone else when we get bored.”

            “Lovely. Can I simply speak to him?”  
            “General Yussam said—”

            “—not to let me into the dungeons, yes. But I’ll remind you that I spent a hellish few months trapped by these Hahnar cunts. I would like a little revenge.”

            “General Yussam did inform me that you were a prisoner held here.”

            _Was that all_? Perhaps Yussam had left out the bit about Raheed running off with Asan, which would have granted him a beheading if Yussam hadn’t needed him for a more diabolical plot.

            “Yes. It was awful. I just want to taunt him, only a little. Surely that’s not too much to ask. I even brought a sizable a bribe.” Raheed gestured to the wine.

            The lieutenant snorted, and the first sign of a smile crossed his features. “Alright, but nothing to cripple him.”

            “Oh no, nothing like that.” Raheed picked up his bucket of wine and followed the lieutenant into the courthouse.

            Raheed did not recognize the Khamal Hahnar trussed up on the floor. He looked to be around Raheed’s age, his gaze distant. Clearly he had removed himself from his dire situation long ago. When some of the jubilant Mulli soldiers saw Raheed approach the Hahnar, they grew quiet in expectation.

            “Feels lovely, doesn’t it?” Raheed told the Hahnar, knowing that the Hahnar most likely did not speak any Aillic. “Being tied up and tormented? I know _I_ feel great, standing over you like this. This must be how you felt standing over me, I’m sure.”

            The Hahnar avoided Raheed’s gaze. He was not an advisor, no one who had any idea who Raheed was or how he was involved in this duplicity. At least there’d be no danger of him giving Raheed away.

            “You look thirsty. Let me pour you a drink, yes?”

            Raheed dug into his bucket and pulled out a wooden goblet, as well as the bottle of unpoisoned wine. Yanking the cork out with his mouth, Raheed poured a generous amount of wine into the goblet, his grip so shaky that some spilled out over his fingers. After setting the bottle aside, Raheed held the wooden goblet aloft. “To the Mulli Empire.”

            Raheed took a swig, then offered it to the Hahnar. The Hahnar turned away, hatred burning in his eyes.

            “Would you like some?” Raheed asked. Some of the men nearby chuckled, enjoying the spectacle of humiliation. Raheed folded his legs beneath him and sat at a more equal level to the Hahnar man. “I’m sure you are parched. Can’t imagine you’re watered much in that dungeon. Here. Have some.”

            The Hahnar refused.

            “Rude.” Raheed took another sip, contemplative. “It’s delicious, as I’m sure you know. I wonder if it was made here or beyond the mountain. I wish I could have offered you some Mulli wine. It’s most definitely the finest.”

            “I think you’re drunk,” laughed a man to Raheed’s right.

            “I’m getting there,” Raheed shot over his shoulder, taking one more large sip. He extended his arm to the Hahnar, who once again turned away.

            “Should we force his mouth open for you, sir?” asked another man.

            “Oh, let him be impertinent a little longer. He has a short life to live, and I wish he will live it his way.”

            Raheed tilted his head back and drained but a mouthful of wine. This time when he held it out, he kept his arm straight, waiting. The Hahnar didn’t move.

            Two soldiers arrived one either side of the Hahnar to hold him up and force his head back.

            “Be a good whore and open your mouth,” jeered one.

            “It’s not necessary, boys,” Raheed joked. “I think the Hahnars are quite talented at swallowing.”

            There were more snickers at this, and Raheed winked at them as he might have just a few years ago when he’d buried his humanity deep in the face of war. The soldiers at the Hahnar’s sides released his head but kept their hands under his arms, dragging him to his knees.

            “I can force this into you or you can play nice and drink the last of it,” Raheed said, hoping that it didn’t sound like a plea. “It’s your choice, Hahnar.”

            By some miracle, when Raheed offered the wine again, the Hahnar drank. For a moment his expression was filled with fiery rage, but then there was a faint _click_ of metal hitting teeth. It was too quiet for the others to see, but Raheed was able to track the realization in the Hahnar’s eyes. He swallowed delicately, his gaze meeting Raheed’s for a brief, tense moment. His cheek bulged as his tongue tracked the edges of the key he’d just nearly swallowed.

            Raheed would have claimed it was a twitch in his eye, but both he and the Hahnar knew it was a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Raheed can be smart when he's not being a fucking idiot.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://wandarox.tumblr.com/)!


	35. Scorpion Sands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through this chapter, [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CKqLX1uUL8) is a good song to play. :D

 

            When Asan had arrived at Khamal, he instantly knew that all was not what it seemed. Because one of Asan’s donkeys had gone lame, their trip had been significantly lengthened, as Asan was not willing to leave her behind. As they continued their journey, Asan spotted a trail left behind by marching feet—thousands of them. Wagons had carved deep gouges into the earth, and there were horse droppings being inspected by hungry vultures. At some point he must have fallen behind the Mulli army, and while he was not enthusiastic about their presence, he would rather be behind them than in front. Somehow he had evaded their notice, and for this he thanked God and whatever deities were paying attention.

            Asan kept his distance from the path the Mullis had taken, but he traveled parallel to it because he knew to where it led, and Asan was a rather poor navigator. He expected to run across a Mulli camp at some point, but to his horror, the path did not stop before Khamal. It seemed to lead straight to it.

            Khamal rose on the horizon, outlined by a faded purple sky as dawn arrived. All that Asan found of the Mulli army was what they had left behind.

            They must have taken Khamal.

            But so quickly? The marks on the trail were relatively fresh, if horse and camel droppings were anything to go by. He saw no dead bodies littered across the ground or any damage to the walls that stretched almost as high as the mountains that surrounded them. It made no sense to Asan, but then he recalled the plan Raheed had mentioned. Maybe it was some cunning ploy to wipe out the Mullis or turn them away. Maybe the Hahnars had arrived from beyond the mountain and the Mullis had retreated in fear. Of course, there would be traces of a retreat, and Asan saw none.

            Afraid for more than his own life now, Asan made a wide circle around Khamal until he came to the craggy cliffs that protected the rest of the city. It was along these formations that Asan had found his gateway into the alcazar and where Raheed had been found by patrolling Hahnars. It wasn’t the safest place, but it was empty from what he could see. He proceeded cautiously, pausing every few minutes to observe his surroundings. Because of his deafness, he knew it would be easy for a man to sneak up on him. He paid close attention to the donkeys, for their huge ears would detect sound before any normal man could.

            Asan left his donkeys underneath a shady outcrop of a cliff and went looking for the secret door that he had found before. In the weak dawn light, it was difficult to see much of anything beyond his own feet. The constant walking had not given him sufficient time to recover from his injuries, so the bruise on his leg still ached as his muscles burned with exhaustion. Thank goodness no one could see what a sorry state he was in—he was sure he looked horrendous. He resisted the urge to scratch at the itchy beard growing along his jawline, as that would surely jostle his poor fingers.

            In the distance, Asan spotted a shadow. He dove behind a rock and stayed there a moment, waiting. Slowly he pushed his nose over the edge of the rock, trying his best to remain hidden. To his shock, it wasn’t a man at all—it was a camel.

            But it couldn’t be.

            Asan scrambled out from behind his hiding place and approached the animal. As he grew closer, more of the camel came into view, and when she turned to look at him with perked ears, Asan knew.

            Grinning wider than he had in a month, Asan ignored the thrashing pain in his leg and sprinted straight toward her. Nutmeg only took several slow steps in his direction before they collided. Asan wrapped his arms around her neck and burrowed his face into her dusty fur. He had known of the many stories about camels returning home after a journey, some carrying their fallen masters. In scripture, loyalty was always described in comparisons to the camel. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him to find her here at the foothills of where she had crossed over the mountain with Raheed. She had tried to come home, perhaps to wait for Asan’s return.

            For some reason, Asan began to cry. He had done so in the desert, but not like this. This time he was sobbing around a smile as she dipped her head down and slid her lips over his nose, as if giving him a welcome-back kiss. Laughing wetly, Asan pulled her head into an embrace before kissing the top of her forehead. Camels were not particularly excitable or expressive animals, but he could tell she was happy to see him by the way she leaned against him and nibbled at his tunic.

            _I’m home_ , he tried to sign, but of course that didn’t work so he just thought it before hugging her head to his chest again.

            After this brief joyous meeting, Asan grabbed at her lead line and led her along the cliff face, looking for the entrance to the secret tunnel. He’d only seen it once, but he considered his memory sharp. Every time he paused to inspect the rock face, Nutmeg would press her face against his shoulder, and he would reach out of her, reminding himself of her presence. It wasn’t as comforting as having Raheed or Dasaf, but Asan decided to worry about them later.

            Finally Asan came upon a few scattered rocks, ones he himself had dislodged when he’d taken the route before. After removing some of the larger stones, he found it—the secret tunnel. He had started to wonder if he’d dreamt it all.

            He turned to Nutmeg, who watched him curiously. She would be fine for a few more days; it was the donkeys he was more concerned for. He would have to release them, let them find their own way to water and food.

            The wind changed direction, bringing with it the scent of smoke and charred flesh. Asan looked to the sky and found the stars were fading with the approaching sun.  

            Asan headed back to the donkeys, dropping Nutmeg’s lead despite how she followed leisurely behind. After unpacking what little supplies he could carry with him, Asan removed their bridles and unbuckled their saddles, throwing the tack in a heap on the ground. Then he sent them off with a smack on their rumps. Both were weak from travel and hunger, but they saw the opportunity and took off. Nutmeg glanced at them curiously, unperturbed. Perhaps she did not yearn for the same freedom.

            “You stay,” Asan mouthed to Nutmeg. He would have liked to tie her so that he could find her later, but what if he didn’t come back? What if he found a blood bath inside the alcazar walls? It was best to let her roam, even if it meant the possibility of losing her for good.

            Nutmeg followed him back to the entrance of the tunnel, nuzzling his hair as he moved a few more smaller rocks. Finally he turned and embraced her again before pressing a firm kiss to the bridge of her nose.

            _Good girl_ , he thought before drawing his hands away, hitching the strap of supplies further up his shoulder, and slipping into the black oblivion of the secret tunnel.

 

* * *

 

            It was hard to see in the darkness, but there was a sliver of light outlining the horizon that signaled dawn. Malika used the glow of the morning’s arrival to peer ahead, where Jakil Ultar sat on his camel and Ibahn on his horse. They were conferring, though Malika was too far away to hear what they might be saying. Behind her stood the towering forms of camels, some carrying men and others carrying supplies.

            “How long until we’re there?” Altaf asked, pulling his horse up beside her. In three weeks he’d be thirteen, and yet he already looked far older than that. The set of his jaw had the determination of a leader.

            “A couple more hours,” Malika said softly.

            “You promised me you would stay at the back, Honored Mother.”

            “I will. Once we are there.”

            “If it goes poorly, then you will ride to Bhajar.”

            Malika pointed to the camel that trailed her. “We will not in want of food.”

            Altaf bit his lip, silent.

            “If it goes poorly, you will come with me,” Malika insisted. “There is no debate about this.”

            “It seems so cowardly.”  
            “There’s nothing cowardly about knowing the value of one’s own life. You are the last of the Darim line. We cannot afford to lose you.” Malika’s voice hitched for a moment, betraying her fear. “ _I_ cannot afford to lose you.”

            Altaf looked as if he might reach out to take her hand, but under the omnipresent gaze of the Matij warriors, he didn’t dare. Malika turned back to Jakil Ultar.

            “What do you think they’re discussing?” Malika asked.

            “Ibahn and Jakil Ultar?”

            “Yes.”

            Altaf shrugged. “Ibahn’s father was Matij.”

            “I didn’t know that,” Malika said, turning to face Altaf. “How do you know this?”

            “Uncle Dasaf told me. It was a reason he sent Ibahn, thinking he might hold some sway with the chief.”

            “Hmm.” She didn’t know any of Dasaf’s advisors very well, save Shallaf, who had been very close to Haadi. Shallaf had always been the one to talk Haadi down from his vicious mood swings, so Malika came to associate his presence with safety and protection. He was not the most pleasant company, but she didn’t require pleasantries and shallow smiles. Haadi had not trusted anyone, but he had trusted Shallaf. As for the other advisors, Malika kept them at a distance. They had sworn no vows to her.

            “Do you think we will win?” Altaf asked.

            Malika glanced back at the warriors behind them. There were only four thousand Matij, but it could be the difference between defeat and victory. The Matij were famous for their savagery in battle, but even that did not quiet Malika’s fears. Just because one’s warriors were vicious did not make one invincible. Malika still wasn’t sure if she had any confidence in them. She looked back when Jakil Ultar’s loud laugh cut through the quiet. Ibahn must have said something amusing.

            “Let’s move to the back of the group,” Malika suggested, turning her horse around before taking Altaf’s horses reins. “I feel safer back there.”

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf had been instructed on conference with God, but he’d never been a particularly devout person. Devotion came more easily to men with absolute ideas about an unchangeable world, men like Shallaf and Haadi. During tedious hours with his religious tutor, Dasaf would often daydream and make jokes just subtle enough that his tutor never caught them. Dasaf had been very proud of himself for this, and afterward he would tell his mother.

            “ _Dasaf_ ,” she would say, trying not to laugh at his mischief, “ _God sees all_. _You must not misbehave in such important matters_.”

            “ _But how is repeating prayer after pray important? Doesn’t God grow tired of hearing the same words over and over again_?”

            _“It is not for God’s benefit. It is for yours_.”

            Dasaf had never really understood that until now. Now he faced his greatest obstacles, and they were all within himself. The Mullis of course had created these obstacles, but it was Dasaf’s rage, fear, hatred, and desperation that gave birth to the cacophony of thoughts inside of him. He found that his time sitting in the dark alone, chained, and naked should not be time wasted. So he prayed.

            He really did not think God would help him. God had allowed the rape and death of his mother, so he believed he owed little to God. But the repetition of prayer pushed everything else from his mind. If he only allowed a collection of words to form, they left room for nothing else. So all night he prayed, rolling the words over his tongue in an endless stream of sounds he barely understood. Sometimes his memory failed him and he moved to words of scripture he could recall. Oddly enough, it came from the Book of the Third Prophet, a book most Khamal Hahnars rejected because it included oppression of their people.

            “And the Third Prophet was thrown from the temple and condemned to ten years of exile in the desert, where he found a Death in the form of a scorpion. But God did rise from the sands and smite the scorpion, then spoke to the Third Prophet and said thus: ‘I, Almighty God, have saved you from Death. Go now and spread the word that you have seen me and that I am the one true God.’ The Third Prophet went to the city of Azarine and told all he knew, and they did fall to their knees in worship, for they knew that the Third Prophet had seen God and that God was gracious.”

“Hey!” came a call through the slot in the door. “What are you blabbering on about in there?”

            “Probably praying for his sorry life,” someone else replied.

            There was some laughter.

            _Death in the form of a scorpion_. Ah yes, true Hahnar scripture. Khamal was never mentioned in the third book, but scorpions certainly were, and many read Khamal and scorpions as the same. _God did rise from the sands and smite the scorpion_.

            “God cannot smite Death,” Dasaf said aloud, now quoting from the Book of Khamal, a piece added much later to the scripture that the Hahnars never heeded. “God needs Death. With Death, there is no God, for how can you love life unless it is finite? And if God does need Death, then Death is God, for God is all.”

            “I think he’s gone mad,” muttered someone in the hall. “The mad king, ha!”

            Dasaf’s voice strengthened as his mind flowed effortlessly forward. “God is a scorpion. Death is a scorpion. The Scorpion is all, and so we decree that the wheat we have sowed and the Scorpion shall be the insignia for Khamal, for we are people of God, Death, and all that comes between.”

            “Should I go in there and poke him a bit?”

            “Nah. He’s gonna die in an hour or so anyway. Let him have his prayers.”

            Dasaf felt as if he were a child again, reading scripture to his tutor, his mother looking on with that ubiquitous smile on her face, a smile still burned into his memory years later. It was that smile he imagined as his voice swelled now, a chant more than a prayer “God rose from the sands in the form of a scorpion, and the Third Prophet did thus tremble in fear. ‘I, Almighty God, have brought you to Death. Do not flee in terror, because Death is I and I am Death, and to accept Death is to accept God.’ The Third Prophet did see this wisdom and accept it, and then he had no fear, having been cured by the love and light of the Lord. From this day forward, let this land be the land of Scorpion Sands, where every man who does not know God trembles before the face of Him while true men of wisdom and piety feel no fear, for death is the true path to God.”

            “You understand anything he says?”

            “I don’t speak Hahnar.”

            Dasaf slowly opened his eyes and saw a sliver of dawn peeking through the slit in the wall above him. A deep calm fell over him, and nothing was able to break through. Every person he kept within him—Haadi, his mother, his father, his family, Asan—they were all gone. There was only this moment, this tiny line of light brought by the sun peeking over the horizon. Today he would see the face of God, whether it be a scorpion or the sneering face of a Mulli. In the end, he supposed they were all the same.

            For the first time, he was not afraid.

 

* * *

 

            The dawn had stained the alcazar a palette of purple shadows and soft orange highlights as the Mullis all gathered in the main plaza. Twenty-five thousand men could not hope to fit, but at several thousand did, cramming themselves into crevices and nooks so that more could peek in and watch with gruesome delight. There was a small circle in the center where a block of wood had been erected, the center carved out into a half circle. Yussam rode a fierce dappled stallion in a circle around it, eyes narrowed toward the sky. His cloak was fanned out across his shoulders and over the flanks of his horse, as if wearing a cape of blood. As much as Raheed hated the man, he did strike a terrifying figure in his armor and finery. Spittle collected at the corner of the stallion’s mouth as the horse rocked back and forth, raising his front leg to dash against the cobblestone. The stallion was not the only one impatient for the activities to start.

            Yussam twisted in his saddle, peering into the swaths of men behind him. “Bring him out.”

            The men parted and allowed a naked and manacled Dasaf to be dragged through. From what Raheed could see, he’d been beaten, judging by the marks along his limbs and back. One of his eyes was swollen shut. Raheed had seen worse happen to the leaders of conquered nations, but unlike those leaders, Raheed knew Dasaf. He knew what Dasaf meant to Leyla and Asan, and he knew what Dasaf meant to his people. Raheed had never felt loyalty to much, not even the Mulli Empire. Today he felt a fierce loyalty to this man, a man who had tried to kill him.

            Yussam dismounted from his horse as Dasaf was pulled to the block of wood in the center and forced to his knees until his neck rested against the circular cutout. Dasaf’s scarred and bloody shoulders heaved, their ridges highlight by the weak sunlight in the distance. Briefly Raheed’s eyes darted to the ramparts above them. Would the Khamal men come? Could they?

            “Raheed!” Yussam called out.

            Every man turned to face Raheed, waiting. Raheed gulped and stepped forward. He had been partially expecting this, but of course he hadn’t known. He had thought that maybe Yussam had forgotten about him in the celebration of their Mulli victory. But perhaps Yussam had one more lesson to impart.

            “You sword, Captain.”

            With a sweaty hand, Raheed pulled his scimitar from its sheath.

            “I imagine you know what you’re to do with that.”

            Raheed’s eyes darted to Dasaf before returning to Yussam. “Yes, sir.”

            Yussam took several steps backward, crossing his arms over his chest. “I give this duty to you then.”

            Raheed nodded. The click of his boots on the cobblestone seemed to echo throughout the plaza as he walked forward. Once his shadow had fallen over Dasaf, Dasaf finally turned to peer up at Raheed through the swelling in his eye. His face was utterly blank, impossible for Raheed to read.

            “This was not what I wanted, Sumas,” Raheed told him softly.

            Dasaf stared at him a moment, then returned his gaze to the cobblestone below, baring his branded neck to Raheed’s sword. Raheed had cut off many men’s heads before—he knew it was easy. He’d never done it for an audience, and he’d never done it without adrenaline keeping him strong. Raheed could do it though. He knew he’d done worse, and to men he had less reason to hate than Dasaf.

            The sun struck the far wall, and something glittered. When Raheed looked closer, he noticed it was the tip of an arrow pointed through a narrow window. And when Raheed looked upward, beyond a distant crenellation, there was a hint of dark shemagh.   

            Every second seemed to last an hour.

            Taking a deep breath, Raheed raised his sword. The silence stretched on, like cloth pulled tight enough to tear. The brand on Dasaf’s neck seemed to glow like a target. If Raheed aimed for it, it would be a clean kill.

            With one last exhale, Raheed’s sword dropped.

 

* * *

 

            Many things happened at once.

            There was the whistle of the sword. Dasaf heard that. But the contact he was waiting for did not come at his neck. Instead, it came at the chain connecting his wrists.

            Less than a second later, there was a loud cry, and then everything was chaos as arrows zipped through the air and found their screaming targets. Yet Dasaf’s mind was absolutely clear. He leapt to his feet, reaching for the sword that wasn’t there. He twisted and found his way blocked by the Mulli, who thrust a sword in his direction.

            “You’ll need this,” he said.

            “Many thanks, Raheed,” Dasaf replied. The Mullis swarmed around them as arrows flew, striking some in the neck and others in the chest. Yussam had been knocked from his frightened horse, and the horse charged their way. Raheed grabbed its reins, tossing himself up into the saddle as the horse skidded to a halt. With a firm grip on Dasaf’s wrist, Raheed pulled Dasaf up onto the horse behind him. A few men ran to cut them down, but Dasaf stabbed one in the throat while knocking the sword out of another’s hand. Raheed jabbed his heels into the horse’s sides and they were off, running through the plaza and plowing through the panicked, confused Mullis that swallowed them. Luckily the alcazar ceilings and doorways were tall enough to accommodate horse and rider, as it was into the alcazar they headed at a gallop, the horses hooves ringing against the tile floor.

            “Where are we going?” Dasaf shouted over the din.

            “Down to the dungeons!”

            Dasaf understood. As they rode, he reached around and grabbed a dirk that was also nestled underneath Raheed’s belt. He would have liked to have a belt—or anything really—to store them in, but he had to use what he had. More Mullis arrived to stop them, but Raheed swept right by them, cutting the throat of one as he passed. Dasaf had no problem dealing with those Raheed missed.

            The horse had some trouble navigating the steep decline to the courthouse and dungeons, so they had to slow their pace for a moment. Confused Mullis who had not yet seen the army of hidden Hahnars ran forward, unsure of why Raheed was riding the general’s horse with a Hahnar on board. Most did not even know what the Sumas looked like, so by the time they understood, it was too late. Dasaf threw Raheed’s dirk, which landed in the forehead of the man in front.

            Raheed swung off the horse, cloak swirling around him. Dasaf quickly followed, landing just as the first of the Mullis arrived to attack. Dasaf was considered brutal during the best of times, but in his current state of mind he was indestructible. It was as if he’d grown three more arms as he cut down Mullis, who had ceased to be humans to him. No, they were faceless demons standing between him and his people, pins to be struck down and little more.   

            By now, some of his men trickled down into the walkway between the alcazar and courthouse, probably in consideration toward the prisoners. This provided Dasaf the reinforcement he needed to push past the last of the Mullis. Two Khamal crossbowmen took out whatever Mullis drifted closer from the walls above. As a pack, they crashed into the courthouse and took out whomever tried to stop them.

            The dungeon was relatively quiet compared to the roar of battle outside, and it rattled Dasaf’s nerves. After putting his sword through what felt like infinite number of necks and guts, they finally reached a door, which had been swung shut and, apparently, locked. Raheed pounded at it with a fist, and the small circle of wood blocking the window to the inside was pulled away.

            “Sumas Dasaf, is that you?” asked a voice behind the door.

            “Yes,” Dasaf replied, shoving past Raheed and the few men standing around him. “You’ve blockaded yourselves in there?”     

            “We heard a cry from the alcazar, so we unlocked our cells and killed the guards. Then we locked this door to keep more Mullis from arriving.”

            “Excellent plan. Everyone is safe then?”

            “Unharmed and safe, shuma.”

            “Men, give them your arrows and bows, in case more Mullis come to call. Beyond that, I think they are safer than we are at the moment.”

            “Sumas Dasaf, I think it wise that you stay with us,” said the man behind the door. “You will be safe here.”

            “No. I will fight if someone can lend me a damn scrap of clothing.”

            Raheed pulled off his cloak and handed it to Dasaf. After hastily wrapping the fabric around himself like a toga, Dasaf ordered what men had gathered to follow him out of the dungeons. They closed doors behind them and doused torches, trying to impede Mullis where they could. Dasaf retrieved Raheed’s dagger from the forehead of an officer before the sound of footsteps came their way. More Mullis were rushing toward them, and this time they were not surprised.

            Raheed glanced at Dasaf. “I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.”

            Dasaf nodded, armed his other hand with whatever sword he could find, and prepared to fight.

 

* * *

 

            Raheed loved battle about as much as he hated it. During his time fighting barbarians in the north, the surge of concentration and power helped cut through memories of ugly nightmares the night before. Even when the aftermath was as brutal as it was terrible, at least Raheed was allowed a few hours to enjoy a clear mind and sharp senses. Today was the first time he’d be fighting his own men, so he hadn’t been expecting the same cloud of utter calm to envelope him. But it did, and in this fog of engagement, Raheed didn’t really care who it was that attacked him—he killed them just the same.

            Loyalty was not expected of Raheed in this battle, and yet he stayed close to Dasaf, not only because he was Sumas but because Raheed hadn’t yet met someone who fought with such deadly force. Raheed had never been so glad to be on the side of a Hahnar. Dasaf lacked armor, a horse, and a shield, but he deflected men as if he were employing all. Within half an hour, his arms glimmered with a sheen of blood, his blade dripping as if melting. This was a man from the legends of Hahnar warriors, and it was a man Raheed felt obligated to guard. All their past skirmishes faded away in the pure adrenaline that was combat.

            The Mullis had not all fit into the alcazar plaza. About half of them still roamed the walls and cities, and once a man had gotten hold of a horn, the call to battle was heard all across the higher regions of Khamal. Men came flooding in, swarming the small pockets of Khamal fighters. Yet archers still remained hidden in the crevices of the Khamal walls that the Hahnars knew intimately but the Mullis had not yet begun to explore. That, of course, was the advantage. The Mullis had their superior numbers, but the Hahnars knew their home, and they knew how to use its shadows to their advantage.

            Raheed had little idea to how the battle was going, though he saw several of the Hahnars surrounding them fall and disappear beneath the feet of advancing Mullis. Soon they were vastly outnumbered, pressed up against a wall with only their swords for protection. Just before a foot soldier put a spear through Raheed’s throat, an arrow flew and struck the Mulli in the back of the head. Several of the other Mulli soldiers scattered, panicked. Their attacker sat upon what looked like Raheed’s horse—wait, it _was_ his horse—completely swathed in pale robes and holding a plain longbow, already notched to fire again. A man advanced on the Hahnar, and Ahmbra skittered away, a veteran of battle. In the maneuver, the Hahnar lost his bow. Raheed guessed it was an eager young recruit who only knew hunting techniques, but the distraction was welcome. Raheed and Dasaf were able to cut their way out of their attackers with ease, which allowed them a brief respite.

            Raheed grabbed Ahmbra by her reins. “Why are you on my horse?”

            “I thought you might need her,” came an undeniably feminine voice from behind the veil. Judging by the skin around her eyes, Raheed immediately knew who it was.

            “Fasa, what the hell—”

            “Get on the horse,” Dasaf snapped, shoving Raheed forward. “You,” he said to Fasa, “off, now.”

            Fasa didn’t argue as she clambered off rather ungracefully, proof of her inexperience. Raheed jumped into the saddle once she had vacated it.

            “Do you want on too?” Raheed asked Dasaf.

            “If you can take me to Yussam, then yes.”

            “I don’t know where he is. It’s a big alcazar.”

            “Then guess,” Dasaf said as placed his foot on top of Raheed’s and easily vaulted himself behind the seat of Raheed’s saddle. As they trotted away, he twisted around to address Fasa. “And get back to the dungeons, you idiot!”  
            “She saved our life,” Raheed reminded Dasaf as Ahmbra navigated the incline toward the main alcazar gate. Dasaf killed a man that rushed toward them with little more than a thrust of his sword.

            “She’s still an idiot,” Dasaf grumbled in his ear.

            A few Mullis jumped down from the arch they passed through, one landing just shy of Ahmbra’s hindquarters. Ahmbra never cared for foolish men running up behind her, so without Raheed’s cue, she performed a short crow hop before kicking the Mulli square in the gut, sending him to the cobblestone with a shout. Dasaf grabbed the reins so Raheed could take care of the other two with his sword.

            “Did you train her to do that?” Dasaf asked, sounding almost impressed.

            “No. She’s just a bitch.”

            Ahmbra climbed the last of the incline, where the thickest of the fray was in motion. Raheed knew Yussam would be the hardest-to-reach area of the alcazar, because he was smart, if not cowardly. Raheed doubted he and Dasaf could make it through the gate alive, not in that mob.

            “Let me steer,” Dasaf ordered, reaching around Raheed and snatching up the reins. “I know another way.”

            Raheed submitted to Dasaf’s navigation. Dasaf spun Ahmbra around and headed her in another direction until they were in a narrow space between the alcazar inner wall and outer wall. No Mulli had even found his way back there, making the alley empty and eerily quiet.

            “Servant entryway,” Dasaf muttered.

            Suddenly there was a soft _thwip_ and the clatter of an arrow hitting the wall behind them. As the alley was too tight to turn Ahmbra around, all Raheed could do was urge her into a faster pace. Another arrow flew, but this one only struck the fluttering strands of Ahmbra’s mane. Clearly the man above them was not a very good shot.

            The alley was more circular than straight, so they were finally out of range of the archer as well as hidden from his view. They came upon a thick wooden door, so Raheed dismounted to open it. Beyond a muffled thud, the door was impervious to his efforts.

            “Here.” Dasaf dismounted as well, reaching past Raheed and pulling out a loose stone in the wall. Beyond it was a rusted skeleton key.

            “How did you—”

            “I made some mischief as a child,” Dasaf explained before jamming the key into the lock and shoving the door open with his shoulder. “The servants never caught me, that was for certain.”

               The door led into a dark room filled with wine barrels. Thanks to the Mullis, the other heavy door on the other side was wide open. Raheed pulled a cautious Ahmbra into the room before locking the door behind them.

            “You can leave her in here,” Dasaf said. Despite the light outside, it was nearly pitch black where they stood. “Unless you want her galloping about the alcazar.”

            Raheed didn’t know how he felt about leaving Ahmbra locked up in a cellar, but he knew she’d be safest here. After tying her to a metal ring hanging from the wall, Raheed and Dasaf dashed through the other door and into the alcazar.

            “Where do you think he’d be?” Dasaf asked?

            “Somewhere safe.”

            “Sleeping quarters perhaps?”

            Raheed shrugged. “It’s a good place to start.”      

            “Good.” Dasaf used the end of Raheed’s cloak to wipe the blood off of his sword. “Let’s go then.”

            Raheed and Dasaf began to wind their way through a maze of corridors and gardens that Dasaf navigated with no trouble. Raheed simply followed Dasaf’s lead, watching as the hem of Raheed’s soaked cloak floated behind him, leaving a trail of Mulli blood in his wake.


	36. Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A soundtrack for this chapter:   
> [Berlin Foot Chase](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSat61A4kr8)  
> [Dracarys](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfmoyTL64R0)  
> [I Don't Think Now is the Best Time](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5IlxIzL8mw)

 

            Asan dealt just fine with being deaf, but he couldn’t imagine the sacrifice involved with blindness. He felt as if he’d been walking for miles, but there was no way to tell without any light to guide him. Had he taken a wrong turn? Was this the tunnel he had found before? Perhaps he was being led into a cave far below the surface, perhaps where some ghosts from Khamal’s past would greet him. After all, this system of tunnels _had_ led to a crypt. Perhaps someone had been buried down here long ago. The thought of it made him shudder. Living Khamal Hahnars scared him enough.

            Finally Asan spotted a torch in the distance. He picked up his pace until he entered the crypt, which was a sea of black save the small halo of warm light emitted from a single torch dropped on the ground. The flame was weak, but when he lightly blew on it and held it aloft, it sputtered and blazed brighter. As Asan looked around, he noticed blankets, baskets, and leather saddlebags, things that had not been here before. He knelt and ran a hand along a mat, searching for dust or rot. No, someone had very recently occupied this space. Mullis? Asan grew sick at the thought. If Mullis had found a way into the alcazar without Hahnar notice, Khamal would certainly be doomed.

            Yet as Asan’s thumb traced the pattern of the mat, he noticed the symbol of a scorpion sewn into its design. These were Khamal possessions. How would they know about the tunnel? Had they had always known?

            Uncertain, Asan proceeded forward, moving out of the crypt and making his way up the incline to the secret door in Dasaf’s garden. His limp was resurfacing again, and his lungs burned with the exertion of the climb. He had barely eaten anything since leaving the Mulli camp, and his skin felt like that of a shedding snake—too tight to fit him.

            The flickering light of his torch seemed to animate the crude carvings on the wall. Most of them had eroded away with time, but Asan caught the head of an ox, the raised arm of a soldier, the glaring eye of a man. These carvings probably predated the days of Mulli missionaries, back when Hahnars worshipped many gods and had no written language. Asan would have liked the time to interpret the etchings, as he was sure they told a fascinating story. They certainly spoke of Khamal resilience, if they’d occupied this place for so long.

            Asan finally reached the secret door and pushed it lightly. Pressing his face against the crack, he peered into the empty garden. The tree had been raided of its fruit, and dissected cushions were scattered across the broken shrubbery. A fist clenched Asan’s heart as he witnessed the proof that all was not well at Khamal. Someone had certainly been here, and Asan had no doubt it was Mullis.

            Asan waited a few minutes, searching for movement. When all seemed clear, he pressed his elbow against the door and pushed it back as far as the rusty hinges would allow before climbing out onto the tattered alcove bed that had once astounded Asan with its luxury.

            With his torch and broken fingers, Asan could not navigate the narrow passageway with the dexterity he would have liked, but he tried his best. When he finally pulled his legs through the opening, he used a foot to shove the door shut behind him. Then he slid off the alcove bed and headed for Dasaf’s bedchamber.

            Asan crossed the garden and passed through the archway into the alcazar when a hand shot out and grabbed the back of his tunic. Reflexively, Asan swung his torch until it connected with the skull of his attacker. To his horror, the figure who stumbled backward was General Yussam, and by the time he gathered his bearings, there was retribution in his eyes.

            Asan didn’t wait. He took off for the door, his broken fingers numb with fear as he grasped the handle. But the door would not budge—it was locked. After processing this, Asan felt the presence of someone behind him, so on instinct, he ducked. The blade of a sword embedded itself into the wood where his head had been.

            Asan dropped his torch and whatever other loose supplies he carried as he darted back toward the garden. Yussam grasped a handful of his tunic, jerking him back so hard that Asan fell to his knees on the hard tile floor. Biting back a sharp yelp of pain, Asan twisted and kicked Yussam, who was crawling up his body to reach his neck. Asan’s knee landed just underneath Yussam’s jaw, knocking his head backward. After scrambling to his feet, Asan snatched up the sword that Yussam had dropped nearby. But he didn’t have the time or expertise to wield it efficiently, so he sprinted back into the garden. Out here, the roof was only a story high, but the trick was reaching it. The only access possible was up through the branches of the orange tree. It was a short statured and thin, barely enough to hold up a body. But Asan had to try.

            With full use of his hands, Asan could have easily scaled the trunk and attempted the leap between the branches and the roof. With his hands crippled, Asan could barely grasp a branch without suffering a blaze of agony shooting up his arms. Yussam was mere steps away now, his bloody teeth giving him the grimace of a demon. Asan knew that he would be dead within seconds, even if he had taken Yussam’s sword. Shoving the blade between his teeth, Asan attempted once more, moaning through the pain as his hands finally grasped the branch. Arms trembling, Asan launched himself upward, just far enough to secure a foot in the groin of two branches. Once up, Asan grabbed a branch with both knees and elbows as he wiggled closer to the tiled roof. The tree shook as Yussam tried to follow.

            Mad with terror, Asan threw a leg over the side of the roof and dug his knee into a tile groove until it hurt. Using this leg to balance, Asan shoved back, throwing himself upward until his body flopped onto the mossy slope of the roof. Fingers slipping in the grime of black fungus, Asan rolled into a position from which he could stand, but it was difficult to get purchase, especially when some of the tiles shifted beneath him and began to slide down the roof. Asan’s mind was so singularly focused that he was able to keep scrambling until he finally made it to the pinnacle of the roof. From here, he could at least run along the center until he reached some place where the doors _weren’t_ locked.

            Now that Asan could see the area around him, he noticed figures moving and shooting arrows between the alcazar turrets. He didn’t allow himself to observe it further, because the roof vibrated with the extra weight of Yussam’s body. Asan took off again, trying to balance on the thin flat strip that bisected the opposite slopes of the roof. Normally Asan would have been more careful, but he was in such a state of panic that a slip of the foot was inevitable. He’d only traveled thirty or so strides before his left foot knocked the other. Balance disrupted, Asan teetered sideways, and gravity took him down. His body collided with the sloped tiles and he rolled off the edge, dropping to the courtyard below. Asan’s breath rushed out of him, leaving an empty pit in his lungs he could not fill. It took several gasps to inflate his lungs again, and it took several more in order to retain the use of his muscles. By now he saw Yussam’s shadow looming on the roof above him, poised to strike. Snatching up the sword he had dropped, Asan leapt to his feet and ran again, though this time it was with nearly depleted energy reserves. Every agonized breath seemed to drown out the pain of his fingers.

            The courtyard led into what looked like a servant’s room, and _this_ door was not locked. Asan dashed into the hall, where he spotted several Mulli soldiers turning his way. Asan peddled backward before galloping in the opposite direction. When he felt another hand grab at him, Asan yanked a nearby lamp from the wall and tossed its contents back behind him. He didn’t pause to see who he had burned—he kept moving.

            Asan spun around a corner and knocked into someone, the impact nearly sending him sprawling. He had no idea who it was, but the man spun him around and jerked an arm around his throat, holding Asan against his chest in a chokehold.

            Asan’s eyes fluttered at the fierceness of the grip before he was suddenly released. Just before he could see whom he’d collided with, he was shoved aside and the Mullis at his tail were upon them. Yussam’s sword had skittered away, leaving Asan defenseless. He could find no more strength to rise again, so he curled his arms over his head to protect himself. It would at least make a beheading easier, and he supposed that was preferable to anything else.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf cut a throat of one Mulli and the shoulder of another with a swing of his sword. The man behind them was dead before Dasaf could raise his arm; Raheed yanked his blade from the Mulli’s gut, then kicked him to the ground. From behind the fallen men came a familiar figure, who skidded to a stop upon spotting them.

            “ _You_ ,” Yussam spat at Raheed through the blood in his mouth. When he noticed Dasaf advancing, he quickly turned and ran, much like the coward Dasaf had always imagined. Dasaf was prepared to let him go, just because of his brief glance of the man now coiled on the floor in a fetal position.

            “Don’t,” Raheed said sharply. “I will stay. You go after him.”

            Dasaf hesitated as his eyes flickered to Asan. More than anything he wanted to stay, but the urgency in Raheed’s face convinced him otherwise.

            “Dasaf, _go_! I will take care of Asan!”

            Dasaf swallowed, nodded, and ran after Yussam, his focus broken. Dasaf had been doing well until now, but the sight of Asan had torn apart the rhythm of battle. Yet eventually Dasaf realized what Asan had been running from, and his determination was renewed. He ran as fast as he could after the fluttering cloak of the Mulli general.

            For an older man, the general was fast, and he’d had a head start. He might have even outrun or outmaneuvered Dasaf if not for Dasaf’s complete familiarity with the alcazar. There was no nook or cranny that Dasaf did not know about, and that was ultimately Yussam’s greatest weakness. In his effort to find a clever hiding place, he had pushed through the broken door of Dasaf’s private bath chamber—a dead end.

            Compared to the destruction of the rest of the alcazar, the baths looked nearly untouched. Dasaf was sure some lucky Mullis had relished their time here, soothing their aches and pains in the hot water Khamal Hahnars took for granted.           Yussam stopped at the edge of the tallest pool before realizing his mistake. Slowly he turned to face Dasaf, who paused at the bath entrance.

            “Fuck you all, you _heathen animals_ ,” Yussam spat. Sweat and blood had created clumps in his full beard. All of the regality and poise he had owned in the Mulli camp had faded, revealing a panicked, infuriated beast beneath. He reached for the short sword at his waist, as his other scabbard was empty. When Dasaf approached, he held it out, squatting defensively.

            “My men will wipe the alcazar floors with your blood! Your pitiful resistance is nothing against the Empire.”

            Dasaf didn’t answer, only ascended another step toward Yussam. This only seemed to rattle Yussam further.

            “And if by some miracle you defeat us, there will be more. There will _always_ be more! Then your palace will fall, and the Empire will butcher you all.”

            Dasaf swung his sword. Yussam easily blocked it. Dasaf tried again, the metal of his scimitar hissing as it connected with that of Yussam’s.

            “Ha! Some Sumas you are. I have trained with Mulli’s finest masters since I was six. What are you? The brood of traitors.”

            Dasaf quickened his blows, and Yussam effortlessly parried each. This continued for some time, though Dasaf did advance, breath by breath, until Yussam’s heels were at the edge of the bath. He paused, glancing down at his position. His smirk was gruesome.

            “I’m not afraid of some warm water,” Yussam said. He deflected a blow Dasaf made toward his stomach.

            “You attacked my people,” Dasaf finally said, the Aillic flowing from his lips as if he’d been born with the language.

            “So you do speak, Hahnar.”

            Dasaf tried shoving Yussam backward, but Yussam skirted around him with a laugh.

            “Is that all you have to say?” Yussam taunted.

            “You branded me with the disgusting mark of your slaves,” Dasaf continued.

            “It almost puts you on their level.”

            “Your Empire killed my family.” Dasaf’s overhanded attack was stronger this time, and he watched Yussam’s grip on his sword falter for just a moment.

            “Better to die a Mulli death than live the life of a heathen.”

            They had circled around so that the pool was once again at Yussam’s back. Dasaf’s eyes traced every moment, his gaze so sharp that he could see the dribble of sweat rolling down Yussam’s wrist. Dasaf knew what to do, and the clarity of mind that had soothed him before his near execution arrived again.

            “Lastly, you tortured Asan, who was of no threat or concern to you and your _Empire_.”

            A brief flicker of confusion crossed over Yussam’s face. “How do you know that servant?”

            Dasaf moved in a flash, tossing his sword away. The movement was so unexpected that Yussam faltered, providing Dasaf the opening he needed. He reached out and grasped onto a handful of Yussam’s hair, using it as a handle to spin him around before yanking his sword from his sweaty, slippery fist. As Yussam struggled in Dasaf’s hold, Dasaf leaned down next to his ear, whispering, “You have no need for this head. It’s not like you use it anyway.”

            Then Dasaf swung the blade down through the back of Yussam’s neck, removing his head in one clean cut. The head dangled from the hand that still fisted its hair; the body slumped backward and landed in the bath with a resounding splash. Once the body had settled, the only sound was of the trickle of spring water through the bathhouse, as well as the steady _drip drip_ of Yussam’s bloody and torn neck speckling the stone floor.

 

* * *

 

            Raheed put a hand on Asan’s shoulder, and Asan jolted. Despite Asan’s resistance, Raheed was able to turn him sideways, just enough so that when Asan’s clenched eyes fluttered open, he saw Raheed looking down on him.

            All the tension in Asan’s body released, and his arms immediately wrapped around Raheed’s torso, practically dragging him to the floor. Laughing, Raheed pushed Asan away.

            “Not here,” Raheed told him, signing as well. He pointed to a nearby door. “In there.”

            Asan nodded. The room they moved into had been converted into a storage space, with buckets, mops, piles of bed sheets, and what looked like servants’ uniforms. Raheed closed the door behind them before turning to Asan and embracing him properly. Sometimes he still thought of Asan as that beggar boy he’d saved from Khafa, which was why he was so shocked by the strength with which Asan hugged him.

            “Worried,” Asan said a bit too loudly. It was unusual for him to speak aloud, especially to Raheed, but judging by the crooked state of his hands, Raheed didn’t question it.

            _About me? I was worried about_ you _._

“Mullis try to kill,” Asan replied. “But I fight and escape.”          

            “Are you—ugh _._ If I hadn’t sent Dasaf after Yussam, I’d fucking strangle the man myself.”

            “Dasaf?” Asan looked to the door, his expression falling.

            _He’ll be fine._

“You don’t know.”

            _I do. Dasaf has been kicking Mulli ass ever since I freed him_.

            “You free . . .?”

            “Yeah, right before Yussam asked me to execute him.”

            Asan went even paler than he already was. His hand suddenly went to his forehead, and moments after Raheed noticed, Asan crumpled. Raheed caught him halfway through the fall, lowering him gently to the ground.

            “Geez, here I am talking to you like an idiot. How hurt are you? Your hands are . . . fuck.” Raheed took Asan’s forearm, frowning down at Asan’s swollen, bruised fingers. At least one was broken at the knuckle and bent crooked. _I’m afraid only Leyla has the expertise for this,_ Raheed said.

            “Is Leyla . . .?”  
            “She’s fine.” Raheed dug beneath his belt and pulled out his canteen, which had little water but enough to wet a tongue. “You need something to drink before you pass out.”

            Perching Asan’s head on his lap, Raheed helped Asan take a few sips from the lip of the canteen. He still looked ghostly pale, and Raheed hadn’t a clue how to fix it. He was a man skilled in bringing death, not stopping it. He wanted to stay with Asan, but he also knew he was needed out there in battle, because Khamal needed all the help it could get.

            _How do you feel_? Raheed asked.

            “Tired,” Asan replied, “and much pain.”

            Raheed brushed some hair off of Asan’s forehead. His nose and lips were reddened by the sun and covered in dead, peeling skin.

            _I told you to go to the pass_ , Raheed said.

            Asan smiled slightly. “Not servant. Don’t take orders.”

            “Heh. Cheeky bastard.” Raheed’s grin faltered, and he found himself running his hand over Asan’s hair again, like a fretful mother.

            “Go fight,” Asan murmured. “I stay.”

            “Asan . . .”

            “So much we have been through. Always live. Always stay together.”

            Raheed hoped to God he wouldn’t cry, because he’d made it this far without so much as fighting the urge.

            “Together again soon,” Asan wheezed.

            Raheed squeezed his elbow, since he didn’t dare touch Asan’s mangled hands. “Yes, of course.”

            Asan turned his face into Raheed’s thigh, and they sat in silence, neither one willing to leave the other. Footsteps clattered outside, but no one paused at their door. Taking a deep breath, Raheed gently lowered Asan’s head to the floor, then grabbed a folded bed sheet so that Asan would have a pillow.

            “I’ll be back, I promise,” Raheed told him.

            Asan’s eyes held all that Raheed felt and more, and Raheed couldn’t look for long, afraid he might lose all his resolve. Finally Asan nodded.

            “I believe,” Asan replied.           

 

* * *

 

            Any Mulli servant that attempted to escape the alcazar through the main gate was cut down by the horde of malicious Matij warriors that waited for them. They rushed in on camels, some blowing horns while others screamed with swords held high. Altaf was confused to why the gate was raised—had the Mullis come after all? Once inside the city, Altaf saw that all was chaos. Dead bodies littered the cobblestone street, their blood running in crusty rivers through its cracks. In the distance, the sound of fighting roared.

            “They’re in the alcazar!” Altaf told Ibahn, who rode at his side.

            “Indeed. We’d best get you out of danger.”  
            “But my mother! Where is she?” Altaf twisted around, searching for his mother in the fray. Somehow they had become separated, and the panic of her loss filled him.

            “One of the other men will worry about her. Come quickly with me!”

            Altaf kicked his horse into a canter up the slope, following Ibahn’s lead. A few Mulli soldiers appeared at the top of the hill, but Ibahn pulled out his long bow and put an arrow in each. By the time Altaf had grabbed his sword, the men were dead. Altaf had never seen such violent deaths outside of the Mulli he had beheaded before. Swallowing fear, he pushed his horse further into the city.

            “Do you think my uncle lives?” Altaf shouted over the clacking of his horse’s hooves on the stone street.

            “Now is not the time to worry about such things, young Sumas. Come. This way!”

            As Matij warriors rushed past them on foot, Ibahn drew Altaf down a narrow alley between a wall towering above them and a wall stretching far below to the cliff beneath. Most of the buildings here were residences for servants and advisors; Altaf wasn’t sure why they were riding this way, but he didn’t question Ibahn’s judgment. After squeezing his horse through a low-hanging archway, Altaf stopped as Ibahn dismounted.

            “Why are we here?” Altaf asked. “Isn’t the battle up higher?”  
            “There will be no battle for you, young Sumas. You will stay here until it is safe.”

            “But what if the Mullis take Khamal? Aren’t I to run for the mountains with my mother? Why isn’t my mother here too?”

            “Your mother is being moved to a different location. It is best to disperse important people in case one is found.”

            “But—”

            Ibahn gave him a chiding look that reminded him much of his uncle. “Go into the house. Trust me, and I’ll keep us both alive.”

            Altaf clamped his mouth shut, still not convinced. His mother had made it very clear that if the battle went in the Mullis favor that they had to head for the Hahnar Mountains. While there was no outcome to the battle yet, if he was stuck in this hovel, how would he escape in case of a Mulli victory?

            Altaf swung off his horse and stepped through the front archway of the hovel. Whatever family had lived there previously had vanished now, leaving only the soot in the fireplace and some ratty blankets on the ground. He wondered how many lived here and where they had gone. Had the Mullis killed them? Had they fled? Or were they fighting?

            Pacing the small room, Altaf kept his ears perked for telltale signs of the battle’s progress. He didn’t understand anything that was happening—hadn’t the Matij been Khamal’s only hope? Why were the Mullis already inside, and why had they looked like they were fleeing toward Matij troops? Perhaps he should ask Ibahn. But what would Ibahn know? Perhaps it had all been a plot hatched behind Altaf’s back, which made him angry, about as angry as being hidden away by his advisor. He was not a child to be coddled! If he was going to lead his people, he needed experience doing so. He’d garnered Matij loyalty, hadn’t he?

            Altaf strode to the doorway of the hovel. “Ibahn, I want to fight.”

            “No.”

            “I am Sumas. I will do as I like.”

            “You are not Sumas yet, shuma Darim.”  
            “I won’t be shut away like a child!”

            “Here.” Ibahn reached to his belt and pulled out a small canteen resting beside his usual one. “Drink this.”

            “What is it?”

            “Just wine. Go on, if you’re such a grown man.”

            Scowling, Altaf drank it. It was much more sour than he remembered wine tasting, and it made his tongue numb.

            “What is this?” Altaf asked.

            “A special concoction that calms the nerves,” Ibahn said, looking away.

            “I don’t need calm nerves, I need _sharp_ . . .” Suddenly the center of Altaf’s vision bulged, and he stumbled against the doorway. He felt a cool tingling at his fingertips, and the feeling slowly began to creep up his arms. “Ibahn?” he asked in a panic.

            “Sit down,” Ibahn urged, drawing him back into the hovel.

            “What . . . what did you . . .”

            Ibahn forced Altaf to sit shortly before the sound of approaching hoof beats echoed through the alleyway. Then Ibahn reached beneath Altaf’s cloak and withdrew the sword he kept there.

            “I’ll be needing this,” Ibahn said, voice gentle. “Rest.”

            “You . . .” Altaf’s tongue felt fat in his mouth. Ibahn stood and headed out into the alley, leaving Altaf alone. As his arms had more function than his legs, Altaf used his elbows to drag himself toward the fire pit, where a fire poker had been left. His fingers had trouble wrapping around it, but he finally managed to grasp it and hide it behind him, just before someone new stepped into the hovel.

            Jakil Ultar.

            “Are you going to tie him up?” Jakil Ultar asked Ibahn in a low murmur.

            “He’s harmless for now.”

            “Never underestimate a _Darim_ , Ibahn.” Jakil Ultar left briefly and returned with a coil of rope. “I want to return to battle as quickly as possible, and I don’t want to have to worry about a little scrappy Khamal boy ruining my plan. Pull him straight and I will tie him.”

            If Altaf had retained full use of his limbs, the thrust he made with the fire poker at an approaching Ibahn would have skewered him quite effectively. But his arms felt limp, as if they were no stiffer than the clothing that encased them. Ibahn easily knocked the fire poker from Altaf’s hand before kneeling in front of him.

            “I don’t want to hurt you, shuma,” he whispered. “Please cooperate.”

            Altaf attempted to form words, but all they conjured was an angry moan. As Ibahn propped Altaf up, Jakil tied both his wrists and ankles tightly. Then for good measure, he grabbed a handkerchief from his belt and thrust it between Altaf’s lips, using more rope to keep it there.

            “There, there,” Jakil Ultar sneered. “Don’t you worry. The Matij will take good care of Khamal once your uncle is dead and his army is destroyed by Mullis. He has done us a great favor, killing so many of those _faskiis_ for us just in time for us to take the city. And you? Well, once the city is mine, then I promise your death will be a quick one.”

            Altaf struggled against his bondage. The sour drink had not only slowed his movements but his thoughts as well. What was Jakil Ultar _talking_ about? He hadn’t even wanted to help Khamal; that had been the decision of his daughter. Or maybe . . . maybe it had all been a silly act for him, a way of playing with his prey before killing it. Perhaps he had always planned on coming, but only after the majority of Mullis and Khamal soldiers were dead. Certainly Khamal would welcome their saviors . . . only to find them nothing but serpents in disguise. Jakil Ultar’s betrayal did not surprise him, but Ibahn’s? Ibahn had always been loyal to Khamal—he was born here. What possible grudge could he have against the city that raised him?

            “I’ll be off then,” Jakil Ultar said, “You watch him. Make sure no one enters and dashes away with him.”

            “Of course, shuma.”

            Jakil Ultar sent one last satisfied smirk at Altaf. “Some Sumas you’ve been, eh Darim Altaf? Not like your father at all. He’d be ashamed to see you now.”

            Altaf threw his weight into fighting the ropes containing him, but it was hopeless, even if he’d been at full strength. He flopped uselessly against the mud floor, and Jakil Ultar only laughed. His laughter was cut short when the horses outside spooked, their hooves rattling against the cobblestone. Seconds later they took off, and Ibahn ran to the doorway to see what was the matter. In an instant, an arrow collided with his stomach, nearly knocking him over.

            Jakil Ultar rushed to the doorway of the hovel with a shout. Through the side window of the hovel crouched a figure, difficult to see in the shadows. When Altaf squinted harder, he nearly gasped with recognition. His mother held a finger to her lips before crawling through the window and landing soundlessly on the mud floor. Jakil Ultar fought a Khamal soldier that Malika had brought with her, oblivious to her presence. Altaf noticed a knife that glittered in her hand moments before she plunged it into Jakil Ultar’s side. Jakil Ultar stumbled forward, swinging blindly behind him. His elbow caught Malika’s nose, sending her reeling toward Altaf.

            “ _You_!” Jakil Ultar roared, but he was punched powerfully across the face by Malika’s reinforcements, knocking him out cold. Meanwhile, Ibahn moaned and bled out by the hovel doorway.

            Malika rushed to Altaf, using her bloody dagger to cut through Altaf’s ropes. When he was finally free, he slouched against the arms that scrambled to embrace him. She pressed several kisses against his head before holding him out. He had trouble focusing his eyes on her.

            “You . . . you stabbed . . .”

            His mother’s face was hard, harder than he’d ever seen it. “ _No_ _one_ touches my son. Let the Matij know that for as long as I live.” She gazed at him a moment before pulling him to her again. “Oh, my beautiful boy.  I was so worried when you vanished. Luckily I saw Jakil Ultar come this way. It made me suspicious, so I asked Ghali to accompany me this way.” She looked up at Ghali, who had slipped his sword back into it scabbard. He stepped out of the sun and casually stood over Jakil and Ibahn’s bodies.

            “Thank God we reached you in time,” he said. He turned to Ibahn, who was still twitching in pain, his hand clasped around the arrow shaft in his side. Ghali moved toward him, but Malika held up a hand.

            “Don’t. Let him die painfully.” Her voice could cut glass. “If Jakil is not terribly injured, I would like to lock him up and try him for his crimes.”

            “But the rest of the Matij—”

            “They won’t know until the battle is over. I don’t want to worry about it until then.” She turned back to Altaf. “Can you stand?”

            He shook his head.

            “We will get you on a horse. Come, Ghali. Help me with him.”

            With Ghali’s arm around Altaf’s waist and his mother’s strung along his shoulders, they transported Altaf to Malika’s horse outside. Altaf slumped but was able to remain upright.

            “Tie up Jakil Ultar and leave him here. We will deal with him later,” Malika ordered Ghali.

            “Yes, shuman.” He paused, a smile flickering across his mouth. “I have never been so proud to serve you as I am today.”

            Malika barely seemed to register the praise, only  nodding coldly. She returned to Altaf, sliding her foot into the stirrup and mounting the horse behind him.

            “Let us find someplace safe,” she whispered in his ear. “We will fight another day.”

            With an arm wrapped around Altaf to keep him from slipping, she kicked her horse into a canter, down the alley and out of sight.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf would have liked to say that the battle ended with Yussam’s death, but of course it dragged on as if nothing of much importance had occurred. After tossing Yussam’s head to the side, Dasaf ran out of the bath and down the hall to where he’d left Raheed and Asan. Raheed called to him from behind a closed door, which opened upon Dasaf’s approach.

            “I’ve told him to stay in here,” Raheed said, then looked beyond Dasaf’s shoulder. “What of Yussam?”

            “Dead,” Dasaf replied curtly.

            Raheed nodded. “There is still a battle to be won.”

            “Yes, of course.” Dasaf wanted more than anything to see Asan, to only assure himself that he was alive and would survive. But he also feared he wouldn’t be able to leave Asan’s side, and he couldn’t afford any emotional turmoil when danger remained so near.

            “He’ll be fine,” Raheed murmured to him. “As long as he stays hidden.”  
            Dasaf nodded and backed up to allow Raheed entrance into the hall. Raheed closed the door behind him. It was a nondescript door, so Dasaf hoped no curious Mullis would go snooping. He figured they had bigger problems than whatever lied behind closet doors.

            “Lead the way,” Raheed said, waving his hand.

            “Let’s go up to the battlements and dispose of any Mullis with crossbows,” Dasaf replied before taking off down the corridor and toward the closest stairwell.

            The alcazar battlements were not for the faint of heart. One side only rose several stories, but the wall facing the city wall towered over tiny hovels so far below that they looked like pebbles amongst the boulders. In the distance sat the desert, and this was speckled with moving forms riding what looked like camels.

            “The Matij?” Dasaf asked himself before Raheed joined him on the battlement walkway. “I think the Matij have joined us.”

            “Excellent. Let’s hope they don’t fuck things up too bad, eh?”

            “You go left, I go right. We kill whatever Mulli gets in our way.”

            Raheed pulled his sword from his scabbard. “Sounds like a plan.”

            Dasaf twirled around and headed along the narrow space between massive crenellations on either side. His path connected to the nearest tower, and he knew _that_ would be a hotspot for any Mulli who wanted an eagle’s eye of targets. The door had been beaten down, and just beyond it was a Mulli soldier whose heart was quickly skewered by Dasaf’s thrusting blade. He noticed two Khamal men lying dead on the floor behind them, but Dasaf didn’t allow himself the time to look at them. He might recognize them, and that would severely hinder his concentration.

            There was a cry and the hiss of metal up the twisting staircase, so Dasaf headed that way. It seemed some Khamal soldiers had already made their way to the top of the tower; he hoped to join them. Dasaf scuttled up the ladder and through the trap door that led to the floor above, barely avoiding the spear that was shoved down at him. The blade of it caught his shoulder, but the sting of it didn’t register. With a roar, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and pushed it upward, nailing the soldier wielding it in the gut with the blunt end. The soldier stumbled back, and Dasaf followed him. From below, he heard more shouts in Aillic, signaling the arrival of more Mulli soldiers.

            “Dasaf!”

            Dasaf looked over his shoulder and found Shallaf engaged with a burly Mulli officer. The officer had pushed Shallaf up against the tower’s edge, trying to grasp his throat. The officer was so preoccupied that Dasaf had little trouble stabbing him just right of the spine and then tossing him over the wall to his death six stories below.

            Shallaf barely had time to thank him before more Mullis were on them. As Shallaf had stood in as Dasaf’s instructor on many occasions, he and Dasaf fought well together, even in the face of such danger. If Dasaf had considered himself lethal in this fight, Shallaf was the devil himself. Only Haadi could have killed with such precise brutality, and even he might have shown a bit more expression while doing it.

            Another sword nicked Dasaf’s arm, cutting deep enough for blood to run thick down his wrist and between the fingers that held his scimitar. Dasaf began to feel the effect of the blood loss, and the slick blood made it difficult to grip his weapon. As Dasaf struggled to kill a Mulli in front of him, one charged him from behind. Dasaf hadn’t even known until he felt Shallaf’s weight crash into him, sending the both to the ground.

            Adrenaline still coursing, Dasaf shoved his blade through the jaw of one man before kicking another in the groin, briefly crippling him. It gave Dasaf the time to get to his feet, but he noticed Shallaf did not. When Dasaf turned, he saw that Shallaf had been run through with a spear that had been meant for Dasaf.

            “Shallaf?” he blurted, his focus broken by panic.

            Shallaf struggled to rise, but with a wet gasp of pain, he slouched again. His hand wobbled toward the shaft in his stomach while a wet, dark stain spread across his beige robes.

            “Dasaf,” Shallaf wheezed, just in time for Dasaf to twist around and stab another Mulli who had climbed up the ladder. When the Mulli came again, Dasaf shoved him hard enough to send him over the edge of the tower wall. After slicing the throat of the man still holding his groin, Dasaf shoved the trapdoor shut and returned to Shallaf’s side.

            “Leyla . . .” Dasaf wetted his lips. “Leyla can try—”

            “No. No.” Shallaf weakly shook his head as his eyes fluttered to meet Dasaf’s gaze. He grabbed a fistful of Dasaf’s robes, drawing him close. “Go now. Finish this fight.”

            “But you—”

            “Go. Let me die a warrior’s death.”

            Swallowing, Dasaf nodded. Just before standing, he whispered, “Say hello to Haadi for me, will you?”

            A smile trembled across Shallaf’s lips only moments before a stillness froze it and the shimmer of life flickered out. Clamping his shaking lips tight, Dasaf pushed Shallaf’s eyelids closed before standing, throwing back the trapdoor, and returning to finish the task of reclaiming his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we all know who [Lupita Nyong'o](http://i2.cdn.turner.com/cnn/dam/assets/140109142635-lupita-nyongo-close-yellow-horizontal-gallery.jpg) is, I will reiterate that she is the exact replica of what I imagine Leyla to look like, hairdo and all. So rarely do actors/actresses match my head canon, and especially not so perfectly, so now I demand she be in my film version of this book, lol.


	37. The Aftermath

 

            The battle raged into the night, but by the time the moon had risen to the pinnacle of the sky, it became much harder to find Mullis to kill. If any lived, they had fled the city or gone into hiding. Scouts were sent out to search for any that could be found, and ordered to dispose of them. Killing more Mullis now meant less that could return with another army at their back.

            Raheed found his horse and rode her down to the dungeons along with two other Khamal Hahnars. The door protecting the women and few men with them had been gouged and burned, but it still stood strong. It was meant to resist an uprising from behind it, and the unintended result was that it also resisted intrusion.

            After the Khamal Hahnar at his side told them the good news, the door was shoved open and all of those behind it began to stream out. Raheed stood aside to allow them, ignoring the suspicious glares of some women who passed. He didn’t much care what they thought at this point, as he was entirely drained of any will to do much beyond sleep.

            “Raheed!”  
            He turned just before a figured tackled him, nearly sending him to the ground. His laugh was practically hysterical, fed by his exhaustion and amazement that he had lived to see Leyla’s smiling face again.

            “I was so worried!” she blurted, taking a cheek in each hand and inspecting him closely. She must not have found much to worry her, because she quickly jumped forward and kissed him, ignoring the stares of the others. “I’m so glad you’re alright!”

            “Yes, yes,” Raheed chuckled as she embraced him again, nearly squeezing the air out of him. “A few scrapes and perhaps a broken toe, but I will live to irritate you another day.”

            “I don’t think you’ve ever looked so beautiful,” she gushed, shoving back his helmet until it clattered to the floor. Her hands immediately sank themselves in his sweaty curls. “Oh, Raheed!”

            Normally when Raheed lived through a battle, the most gratitude he received was perhaps a few more coins in his pocket and a trip to the local whorehouse. Leyla was nearly suffocating him under the onslaught of kisses she dotted across his face. Forcing down the fluttering of what could only be pure joy in his gut, Raheed pushed her back and attempted to return some gravity to the situation.

            “There are many sick and dying men that need your help, Leyla.”

            “Of course.” She seemed to remember herself, and she looked slightly bashful in the flicker of torchlight on the wall. “I will find my mother and we will do all we can immediately.”

            “If there’s any way I can help—”

            “Of course you can. Come with me.”

            She grabbed his wrist and hauled him forward, pushing through the throngs of women heading toward the exit.

            “Mother!” Leyla called. “Where is Mother? Mother!”  
            Finally a woman appeared out of the crowd, the same one that had glared so ferociously at Raheed when Leyla had kissed him. Raheed was shocked she had volunteered to be a soldier, but she looked young for her age. She carried all of her eldest daughter’s poise and her youngest daughter’s beauty.

            “We must go to the sick and wounded at once,” Leyla exclaimed.

            “Of course. I will need my supplies.” She looked past Leyla to Raheed, as if she’d never met him before. Clearly Leyla did not inherit her gentle nature from her maternal side. “You did not betray us, I see.”

            “Believe me at last, do you?”

            “Raheed, not now,” Leyla said with exasperation before releasing him. “Come, Mother. We must be quick.”

           

* * *

 

            As the Mullis thinned, Dasaf was able to commandeer a rogue horse, as his original one had been butchered and fed to Mulli soldiers. He was still rather bitter about that, but this fiery black mare would do. Dasaf galloped her back and forth, shouting orders and directing men. He finally spotted a familiar Matij in the procession of tired but triumphant men who returned to the alcazar in spurts.

            “Jakil Nhasi!” he called.

            Jakil Nhasi, Jakil Ultar’s oldest son, stopped and waited for Dasaf’s approach. His expression did not change as Dasaf reined in his horse just strides away. His beige robes looked as if they’d been dyed red from shoulder to thigh.

            “Where is my nephew?” Dasaf demanded. “I imagine he was in your charge?”

            “I have not seen Darim Altaf or his mother since we arrived this morning,” Jakil Nhasi said. He did not have his father’s slimy nature, so Dasaf was inclined to believe him.

            “Do you know where your father is?”

            “I have not seen him either.” Jakil Nhasi did not seem particularly heartbroken over the matter.

            “Wonderful,” Dasaf grumbled.

            “It is good to know you survived the fray, Sumas Darim Dasaf.”

            “You as well, Honored Jakil Nhasi.”

            With that, Jakil Nhasi walked on. Dasaf stared down at the soldiers who walked past, many hailing him with cries of elation. Dasaf tried to smile on their behalf, but he was sick with worry over his nephew. Pushing his horse into a trot, he moved down toward the gates, his horse leaping over or swerving around dead bodies that littered the cobblestone. He spotted a group of his men standing near the gate, so he went to them. Only when he drew near did he see them leaning over what looked like a moaning Mulli soldier.

            “What do you want us to do with him, Honored Sumas?” one man asked.

            Dasaf moved his horse through the gap the men made for him. The Mulli’s face was sprayed with blood, but his main injury seemed to be one in his side. Dasaf wondered how long he had suffered down here.

            “Khamal takes no prisoners,” Dasaf reminded his men. They nodded, and one moved forward to brandish his sword. With a quiet slice of his blade, the Mulli was put to rest.

            “Have any of you seen my nephew?” Dasaf asked.

            “No, shuma.”

            “Ibahn then.”

            “No, shuma.”

            “Jhana Malika?”

            They all shook their heads.

            With a sight of defeat, Dasaf headed back up the hill. As he passed through the alcazar gate, he heard a voice cry his name. He turned his horse, which immediately skittered sideways as a man—no, a woman dressed as a man—rushed in his direction.

            “Dasaf!”

            Dasaf dismounted just in time for Leyla to crash into him. She immediately cradled his face in her hands.

            “I didn’t even recognized you at first!” she said, beaming. “How could I without that beard of yours?”

            “Don’t remind me about the beard,” Dasaf grumbled.

            Leyla laughed and kissed his cheek firmly. “God is great! I was worried most about you, brother. Oh, I was sick with it!”

            Dasaf embraced her warmly, kissing the top of her head. As he held her, he felt a bit of himself return, a part he had pushed aside in the face of such a gruesome task. Since dawn, he had become the Khamal Scorpion, a bringer of death, a warrior who felt no remorse or pity. Now with Leyla in his arms, the Dasaf his father had resented began to seep back in, the Sumas who cared deeply for his family, who preferred jokes to violence, who chose diplomacy over war. He squeezed Leyla tighter, unable to express just how joyous he felt at having her back within arm’s reach.

            “I must help the wounded men,” Leyla said against his shoulder.

            “Of course.” Dasaf pushed her back, trying to regain some of his battle façade. “Have you seen Malika or Altaf?”

            “No. You haven’t?”

            “No.”

            “They will show.” Leyla patted his cheek lightly. “Give it time.” She paused. “Why are you naked?”

            “I’m wearing this cloak.” Dasaf plucked at the knot of Raheed’s cloak, which had managed to stay on all day, though much of it had been soaked with blood and torn on blades and sharp edges.

            Leyla pulled off her own cloak and draped it over him. It was strangely bright and spotless against the deep Mulli red of Raheed’s garment. “You’re bleeding too.”

            “I’ll be fine.”

            “Let me at least wrap the deep wounds. We can’t have you fainting.”

            “There are men who need it more—”

            “It will take me but a moment.” Leyla’s tone implied she wasn’t going to tolerate argument, so Dasaf bent his head in agreement. His greatest fear was losing his momentum, because once he stopped moving, it would give his mind time to reflect upon the monstrosities that had occurred that day. How many had Dasaf killed? How many dead would they need to collect, and what would they do with the Mulli bodies? Burn them all?

            He decided not to think of it right now. It was best to focus on Leyla and the rest of his family. Once he reminded himself of the lives he had saved, it might be easier to justify the massacre he had inflicted.

           

* * *

 

            Asan’s mind wandered in and out of consciousness for hours. He was hungry and thirsty, but his body was so racked with pain that he found it difficult to move. He knew that leaving his little safe haven might mean more contact with Mulli soldiers, and he never wanted to see another one again.

            By the time darkness fell, the alcazar had gone eerily quiet. Asan decided it might be safe to finally rise, so he crept out of the storage room and into the corridor. Several dead bodies were his only company here. Asan took some comfort in the fact that they were Mulli. The darkness was so thick that navigation was difficult for him, even though he knew the alcazar well. After some wrong turns, Asan finally made it to the kitchens. Yet they had been raided, so there was no food left, only some hard chickpeas that had rolled under the counter and a few pieces of stale pita bread. His scavenge reminded him of his beggar boy days, though he imagined these meager scraps would not be as filling for him as they were when he was eleven and used to starvation.

            With a sigh, Asan left the kitchens and made his way to the throne room. There were men standing there, so he ducked behind the wall and peered around its edge. With a sigh of relief, he saw that the soldiers were Khamal men. He still didn’t dare show is face, as they would probably not know him and maybe confuse him for a Mulli soldier. Any _faskii_ was suspect at this point.

            He wished he knew where Raheed was.

            As the night crawled on, more men returned to the alcazar, most of then weary and covered in blood. Many of them were limping or clutching hands to their gory wounds. Men on horses drifted in and out of the alcazar, their movements agitated. Asan assumed Khamal had won, but that it had not been an easy victory. Considering how many must have fought, there were so few who appeared in the main plaza alive.

            Asan had to find Raheed. He couldn’t wait another moment wondering if he’d died. He spotted someone familiar in the crowds of men who gathered, a figure much slimmer and shorter than the rest, her head circled by a cloud of fuzzy hair.

            “Fasa,” Asan hissed at her from his hiding place. When she ignored him, he supposed he hadn’t been loud enough. “ _Fasa_!”

            He gained her attention, but also the attention of three other Khamal men who looked positively gruesome in how their robes were torn and stained with blood. In the torchlight, they were able to spot him, and they immediately drew their swords.

            Alarmed, Asan darted into the shadows. He had not moved quick enough, because a hand grabbed him by the back of his tunic and dragged him backward.

            “No!” he cried, holding his hands over his face. “Not Mulli!”

            One Khamal man had put a sword to his throat, but Fasa squeezed between them and spoke to them feverishly in Hahnar. Finally the Khamal man dropped him, but not with any affection. Fasa bent toward him, her face filled with both relief and concern.

            “Your hands,” she said, gently taking his wrists and drawing them forward.

            “Am alive,” Asan told her.

            She smiled slightly. Her expression was haunted and drawn tight, more than usual. Her cheek was smeared with blood, but otherwise she looked unscathed. “Yes, this is true. I thought I’d never see you again.”

            “Where Raheed?” Asan asked.

            Fasa pulled him to a stand. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him lately. Let’s look for him.”

            The battle must have ended, because wounded men were being carried through the alcazar gates and into the alcazar. Asan looked at them, both hoping to see Raheed among them and dreading it. Either Raheed was dead or he was unharmed. As for Dasaf . . . well, Asan wouldn’t even consider that at the moment.

            “Why you dressed like this?” Asan asked Fasa. “Like man?”

            “Long story. Perhaps I will tell you another time.”

            Asan nodded. Fasa left his side to assist two Khamal man carry a few more wounded into the alcazar. In the dark, Asan saw a flash of a crimson-coated horse, and his throat tightened. He left Fasa to her work as he rushed forward, slipping around exhausted soldiers until he was able to confirm that the horse was Ahmbra. The rider was turned opposite of Asan, but Asan knew his carriage. Heart swelling, Asan ran to him.

            Ahmbra spooked slightly as Asan careened toward her, but Raheed gathered her reins and pulled her to a halt. His focus was so diverted toward her that Asan’s arrival didn’t seem to register until Asan stood at his stirrup.

            Raheed’s helmet had gone missing, leaving his head bare, his curls glued to his forehead with sweat. Asan had never found him so handsome. When he saw Asan looking up at him, Raheed’s mournful expression broke into a grin. Asan stood aside as he dismounted, then tackled him once Raheed’s feet touch the ground.

            Raheed’s embrace was tighter now than it had ever been. All of his military resolve drained away as he tucked his face into Asan’s shoulder, his arms squeezing the air from Asan’s lungs. They remained entwined for what could have been five minutes, just rejoicing in one another’s presence. Finally Raheed pulled back, though he did so slowly and with some reluctance.

            “I believe it’s over,” Raheed told Asan, taking his face in his hands. “Khamal has won.”  
            “We are free,” Asan replied.

            Raheed’s eyes appeared moist for a moment. Asan knew Raheed had been a prisoner for most of his life, first to the Mulli Empire and then to Khamal. How sweet a notion of freedom must taste.

            Inhaling deeply, Raheed shook his head and the moment passed. “Come, Asan. Leyla needs to take a look at your hands.”

            “Leyla is okay?”

            “Yes.”

            “Dasaf?” Asan asked breathlessly.

            “I . . . don’t know.” Raheed looked as if he wished he had better news. “I’m sure he’s fine. You should have seen him fight today. A scorpion indeed.”

            Even though Dasaf was not his, Asan swelled with pride. He hoped that Dasaf had frightened the piss out of those Mullis. He hoped that any who survived would run back to the Empire like the cowards they were and tell everyone of how fierce and unstoppable the Sumas of Khamal was. Maybe their fear would keep them away.

            “Let’s find you a bed to rest,” Raheed told Asan. “I will find Leyla, and she will fix your hands.”

            With Raheed’s hand on his shoulder guiding him, both soldier and servant headed back into the alcazar.

 

* * *

 

            By the time morning came, the alcazar was teeming with activity. Women clutching bloody bandages and ewers of water darted from room to room, aiding the wounded and dying. Dasaf was afraid to visit them, as he wasn’t ready to see the toll the battle had truly taken on his people. The joy at finding Leyla unscathed had faded away to reveal the true devastation he felt. Dead, decapitated Khamal men littered the streets, outnumbered by Mullis though they were. Even from the plaza, Dasaf could hear the cries of men in pain, and the sound of it sapped what little strength he had summoned to keep him going. Even worse, many came to him asking for orders, for guidance, for wisdom. They had so many questions, and he had no answers. He was no general, and his advisors were either missing or dead. While some cheered for their victory, Dasaf saw nothing but blood smears on the cobblestone and men who would not be returning to their families. With the thrill of battle gone, Dasaf suffered under the gravity of what he’d done. How many throats had he slit? How many intestines had he watched slither from their bellies? How many Mullis had shrieked like ghouls before death claimed them?

            “Sumas,” said one soldier who approached him. “We have taken some prisoners down by the front gates. They had been hiding and attempting escape.”

            “We don’t take . . .” Dasaf trailed off. _Khamal takes no prisoners_. That was what he had meant to say. But he had no fortitude left to sentence these men to death. Not now. “Put them in the dungeons.”

            The soldier nodded. “Very well, Sumas.”

            Dasaf asked for someone to bring him his horse, and once he had mounted, Dasaf headed out of the alcazar. He could not stay there any longer, nor could he wait for men to bring him news of the outside. He had to see for himself.

            Something had been lit on fire during the battle, so smoke rolled down the street as Dasaf’s horse avoided the bodies of the fallen. Dasaf dismounted whenever he thought he saw movement, but only once did his intuitions turn out to be correct. The Khamal man he knelt beside had just a few more breaths in his lungs, which stuttered to a halt once Dasaf attempted to draw him forward. Dasaf wondered how long he’d been lying here, suffering. He was barely a man, maybe eighteen. If Dasaf or another had come sooner, perhaps a mother would not have lost a son today.

            Dasaf whispered a prayer to the boy before standing and mounting his horse again. As he passed by the servant dwellings, he spotted a lone horse drifting down the alley; it looked very similar to one Ibahn had ridden.

            Dasaf steered his horse down the alley, and Ibahn’s horse trotted away, not intent on capture. Dasaf followed it until he spotted a limp hand rested just past the threshold of a hovel. When Dasaf stopped, he recognized Ibahn’s fallen form, his side soaked in blood. Dasaf jolted when there was movement in the shadows. Someone else was here too. In the weak dawn light, it was difficult to see. Once his eyes had adjusted, he recognized Jakil Ultar, even though he was bound and gagged in the center of the hovel floor. By now the rope circling him was stained with blood, and Jakil Ultar looked near death. Dasaf immediately drew his sword and cut him free, pulling the gag from his mouth.

            Jakil Ultar chuckled, his voice little more than a croak. “Khamal has won, then? Or are you a ghost?”

            “Khamal has been victorious, yes. Come. I will get you to the alcazar.”

            “No, no.” Jakil Ultar shook his head. “No, I will die. I can feel it.”

            “I’ve had enough deaths today.” Dasaf bent to grasp him, but Jakil Ultar grabbed a handful of Leyla’s cloak and dragged Dasaf to the ground, his strength substantial despite his wound. Jakil Ultar then rolled on top of him before striking at Dasaf’s throat with what looked like the tip of an arrow. Dasaf managed to grab his arm just before weapon sank into his flesh, and for a moment they wrestled, Jakil Ultar’s breath stale and stinking of blood. Finally Dasaf was able to throw him off, but Jakil Ultar picked up one piece of rope Dasaf had freed him from and slung it around Dasaf’s neck, yanking him backward until they both slammed into a wall. The impact forced air out of Dasaf’s lungs, but he found he could not replenish it. Instinctively, his hands went to the rope at his neck.

            “You’re a fool,” Jakil Ultar gasped in Dasaf’s ear. “Just like your brother before I chopped off his head.”

            Dasaf reached for his sword, but there was none. It had dropped from his hand when Jakil Ultar had tackled him. In a moment of clarity, Dasaf was able to push through the panic and take action. He leaned forward slightly, then slammed Jakil Ultar back against the wall behind them. Jakil Ultar wheezed, and his grip faltered. Dasaf did it once more, and finally the rope loosened enough for Dasaf to sneak in a breath. He elbowed Jakil Ultar in the stomach and then broke away, grabbing the sword on the floor. Jakil Ultar had fallen to his knees by the time Dasaf turned to face him, but his expression was serene.

            “Go ahead and kill me,” Jakil Ultar said. “I would welcome it.”

            “You killed my brother?”

            “Some Mullis helped,” Jakil Ultar said with a shrug. “Before I killed them at least.”

            Dasaf strode across the room and kicked Jakil Ultar in the face hard enough to send him reeling. When Jakil Ultar pushed himself off the ground, his nose looked broken, blood coursing down his lips and along his teeth as he smiled.

            “I killed him,” Jakil Ultar said, “just like I killed your nephew.”

            Dasaf might have killed him then, but that would be too quick, too painless. Deciding Jakil Ultar was in no position to run, Dasaf strode out to his horse and cut the reins from the bridle. It was these that he used to bind Jakil’s hands, as the chopped rope before was now too short to be of much good.

            “By the time I am done with you,” Dasaf spat, “you will beg me for death.”

            “Like your brother then?”

            Dasaf hit him again, but Jakil Ultar’s yowl of pain morphed into a demented laugh. Dasaf had thought he could hate no one more than the Mullis, but now they had found a new contender.

            There were hoof beats outside. Dasaf went to the doorway and saw Ghali riding toward him, looking stricken. He dismounted before his horse had even properly stopped.

            “Sumas! Don’t go in there! Jakil Ultar is—!”

            “I know.” Dasaf rubbed his throat. “Do you know where Malika is?”  
            Ghali nodded. “She is several streets down, safe.”

            Too numb to feel relief, Dasaf jerked his head toward the hovel. “Jakil Ultar will need to be imprisoned. Quickly, find a few more to help you with him.”

            “Yes, shuma!”

            Ghali mounted his horse and kicked it into a canter down the street. Within minutes, he returned with a few more men. As they pulled Jakil Ultar to a stand and dragged him out on the street, Dasaf punched him across the jaw once more, just to keep himself from stabbing him. Jakil Ultar made no comment, and his laughter had died, so Dasaf decided he was no longer worth his time. He mounted Ghali’s horse and followed Ghali’s directions to where Malika was hiding. He wasn’t sure if Jakil Ultar had been telling the truth about Altaf, so he decided not to assume anything until he’d talked to Malika.

            After searching several streets, Dasaf finally heard a soft nicker. Following it, he came to a small hovel where Malika’s horse was waiting. Beside it sat Malika and to Dasaf’s immense relief, his nephew. Upon seeing him, Altaf’s eyes widened, but his face seemed oddly slack, as if somewhere between sleep and alertness.

            Dasaf dove to Altaf’s side, gripping him by both shoulders. “Altaf? What is wrong?”

            “Uncle Dasaf,” Altaf forced out, his voice uneven.

            “Why is he like this?” Dasaf asked Malika.

            “Ibahn gave him something.”

            “ _Ibahn_?”

            “Ghali shot him.” Malika ran a loving hand over her son’s shorn head. “He is slowly gaining strength, but I’m worried that he is not improving sooner. I need to speak with Leyla.”

            “Why would— _Ibahn_?”

            “He was working in secret with Jakil Ultar. Jakil Ultar is—”

            “A traitor and an ass of Mulli proportions, I know.” Dasaf reached an arm around Altaf to hold him straight, pressing him lightly to his shoulder in a half hug. “He told me he’d killed you. Thank God he is a liar.”

            Malika’s breath rattled as she inhaled, her lips trembling as she reached out to Dasaf. “I am so glad that you’re alright.”

            Dasaf accepted her embrace, and for a moment they sat there entwined like a true family. Finally Malika cleared her throat and turned away, wiping quickly at what looked like tears.

            “Have you seen Leyla?” Malika asked, voice broken.

            “She is well. She is tending to the wounded in the alcazar.”

            “Oh, God is great,” Malika whispered, clenching a fist to her heart. “Can you take us to her?”

            “Of course.” Dasaf stood and helped Altaf to a stand, then out into the alley so he could mount Dasaf’s horse. Dasaf didn’t let himself wonder if Altaf would recover—he knew he had to.

 

* * *

 

            The men had spent a whole day fighting for her so that Leyla could spend a whole day fighting for them. The events passed in a blur of blood and writhing bodies, nothing of which Leyla had ever seen before. She had seen childbirth, the occasional laceration, an infected wound that pussed and stank, but she had never seen such gore, and it was only her determination to keep moving that kept her from faltering. Once her mother had begun to organize the wounded who were brought into the alcazar, Leyla went with several soldiers to search for those who still needed her help. During their search, she came upon a Mulli soldier whose arm was cut so deep there was no chance of saving it. He was weak from blood loss, but she believed he might be able to survive.

            “Shuman?” questioned a soldier who flitted over to her side.

            “This man could be saved.” When the Mulli’s eyes fluttered open, she pressed him back down as he tried to rise. “An amputation and proper treatment might preserve his life.”

            The Khamal soldier—whose name she did not know—had no expression as he gazed down at the Mulli. Instead of assisting her, he took her arm and drew her away as two other soldiers arrived, swords drawn.

            “What are you doing?” Leyla demanded as he attempted to turn her around, but when she heard the slick hiss of metal on flesh, she shoved the soldier out of the way. “What are you—” Her voice died as she saw that the Mulli’s throat had been cut. As the blood left him, so did the life in his eyes.

            “What is the meaning of this?” she snapped.

            “No prisoners,” said one of the soldiers, looking both grim and falsely apologetic. “It is the Khamal way.”

            “He was in pain!”

            “And now he is not,” responded another before spitting on the corpse and striding away.

            The soldier who had drawn her away took her arm gently, attempting some form of consolation. “Shuman, it is not something we wanted you to see.”

            “Needless death is not the Khamal way,” she hissed at him.

            “If not for that man and his ilk, there would have been no needless death.”

            Leyla wanted to argue. Hadn’t there been enough pain and suffering today? Why inflict more? But she also knew there was not much time to reach the Khamal men still suffering around the battlements, so she bowed her head in compliance and followed the soldier. It was heartbreaking to comb through the corpses, especially when she recognized a few. She didn’t know their names, but she could recall their faces. Did they have children, wives, mothers and fathers? Once the civilians were allowed into the alcazar, how much weeping would there be? Leyla felt like she had no right to be joyous over the survival of Dasaf and Raheed when so many others had lost everyone.

            It was midday by the time Leyla returned. Her hands were slick with blood, her face wet with sweat. Someone just out of her view was sobbing, and from within the alcazar came a cry of pain. They had won, yes. They had also lost, and Leyla’s relief had drained away to reveal a deep sadness that was embedded to her like the crusty blood drying along her forearms.

            “Leyla!”

            Her hanging head lifted, and a figure crashed into her, arms tight across her back.

            “I was so worried,” Malika whispered. Leyla had found courage through such horrible sights that day, but in Malika’s arms, it left her. She began to cry as she embraced her sister, and soon they were both sobbing as they clutched one another in desperation and solace. During this entire ordeal Leyla had yearned for her sister’s presence; it always brought her comfort. As the oldest, Malika had an authority and power that Leyla had always depended upon. Without it, she’d felt like a child in search of its mother.

            Malika pulled back, cradling Leyla’s face in her hands. Whatever sibling rivalries had divided them before had vanished by now, leaving them closer and more thankful for one another than ever.

            “You are covered in blood,” Malika whispered.

            “Not mine,” Leyla assured her.

            Malika drew away, though there were still tears in her eyes. “You must come. Altaf has been poisoned.”

            “ _Poisoned_?” Leyla gasped as Malika took her hand and drew her into the alcazar. They pushed past weary soldiers and the first tricklings of returned servants before entering a small room where only Altaf sat, his head and shoulders slumped against the wall. Dasaf was at his side, exhausted but looking as if he wanted to hide it.

            “Aunt Leyla,” Altaf said weakly.

            Leyla fell to her knees in front of him, pressing a palm against his forehead.  “What is wrong?”

            “He seems drugged,” Malika said over her shoulder.

            “Can you lift your arms for me, love?” Leyla asked her nephew. Altaf struggled, but his hands merely flopped over, useless. Leyla took hope in the fact that he could move them at all.

            “I believe this is a potion of my own concoction,” Leyla murmured. “I’m shocked he’s not dead.”

            “ _Yours_?” Dasaf asked. “But how could Jakil Ultar—”

            “Ibahn was helping him,” Malika said. “He must have stolen if from Leyla’s stores.”

            Dasaf appeared incredulous. “Ibahn has always been a trustworthy advisor.”

            “Haadi didn’t seem to think so,” Malika said.

            “Haadi was paranoid because Ibahn’s father was Matij.” Dasaf paused before his eyes grew. “Perhaps that is why he was helping Jakil Ultar? But it makes no sense. Ibahn had never shown any loyalty to his father’s tribe. His father _left_ the Matij to escape their draconian rules.”

            “Perhaps he was angry that Haadi had refused his request to become an advisor.”

            “But _I_ promoted him, didn’t I? Seems like a silly thing to poison the future Sumas for.”

            “Malika,” Leyla interrupted. “I will need you to find my box of supplies. Mother should have it. In it will be a small bottle of milky liquid. Please retrieve it for me.”

            “Of course.” Malika was gone in an instant.

            “Dasaf, please get some fresh water for Altaf to drink. He will need to flush this poison out of his system.”

            “He’ll improve then?”

            “We will see.”

            Dasaf nodded and darted out as well.

            “Am I . . . going to die?” Altaf wheezed.

            Leyla stroked his hair. “Of course not. You’ll be running around the alcazar soon enough.”

            “Are you just . . . saying that?”

            “I would never lie to you,” Leyla murmured firmly before squeezing his hand. “For now, you must rest. I accidentally had some of that poison myself several years ago. Mixed the wrong concoctions and I fainted right there in the kitchens. I thought my mother was going to kill me once my condition improved.”

            “The Matij . . .” Altaf’s brow furrowed. “What about them?”

            “Let your uncle worry about it. Or at least Malika.”

            Malika quickly returned with what Leyla had requested, and with the water that Dasaf provided, they mixed Altaf a soothing sedative. As he drifted to sleep, Leyla kissed his forehead.

            “He’s going to be fine,” she told a frightened Malika, squeezing her hand. Malika looked doubtful, but she nodded as she pressed her lips together.

            “What about the Matij?” Malika asked Dasaf. “They’re traitors. We need to kick them out.”

            “By this point they have about as many men as we do,” Dasaf replied. “I’d like suggestions on how to make kicking them out possible.”

            “What if they try to take the alcazar? That was Jakil Ultar’s plan, after all. Capture the Sumas and then defeat the weakened Mulli and Khamal army in one swift strike.”

            “He didn’t plan on me still being alive,” Dasaf replied. “But I understand. I would ask Shallaf but . . .” Dasaf looked away.

            “Is Shallaf . . .?” Leyla asked.

            “Yes.”

            Leyla bowed her head and fell silent.

            “No matter. I will see what I can do. I will have to talk to Jakil Nhasi. Once he’s found out we’ve taken his father as a prisoner, I imagine he’ll be looking for _me_.” He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He tried to hide it, but Leyla saw the way he wobbled. Even gods couldn’t suffer as a Mulli prisoner and then fight for an entire day, only to take charge of the crippled army that remained. Malika must have noticed too, for she stood as well.

            “I will come with you.”

            “Malika, you know how the Matij are.”

            “I am Suman, and they will listen to me if they don’t want to get skewered.” She rested a hand on Leyla’s shoulder. “Put soldiers at the door. I want Altaf safe.”

            “Of course.” Leyla reached up and squeezed her sister’s fingers. She couldn’t help but feel confident in Malika’s authority. “Good luck.”

 

* * *

 

            “What is the meaning of this?” Jakil Nhasi demanded as he strode into the throne room, where the majority of his men had been herded and kept until the eldest Jakil could arrive. Dasaf sat at the head of the throne, Malika standing at his side. Dasaf wasn’t so much afraid for himself, but he knew his army was vulnerable. The Matij had arrived when most of the Mullis had been killed, so their losses were minor. At this point, Dasaf was sure the Matij could conquer them if they truly desired it. It was a delicate line he would have to navigate, but he had the heart of a diplomat, not a warrior. Where Haadi might have failed, Dasaf would succeed. Malika would certainly support him if he fumbled; her expression at the moment was one only a queen with knowledge of her power would wear.

            “Jakil Nhasi, we mean no disrespect, but we do have reason for our actions. Tell me what you know about your father’s plans to conquer Khamal.”

            Jakil Nhasi’s expression was blank, impossible to read. There was a layer of surprise beneath the stone, but Dasaf couldn’t pinpoint its source. Was he startled that there was a plan? Or was he shocked to find that Dasaf knew about it?

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly.

            “Your father drugged and threatened the life of my nephew, Darim Altaf. He was working in collaboration with Ibahn, a once close and now deceased advisor of mine. The Mullis believed Ibahn was working for them, but it is apparent to me that he was only pretending to aid them in hopes that the Mullis would wipe out my men and many of their own. This would make Khamal vulnerable to Matij attack, and with Darim Altaf in your custody, I’m sure you would have a great deal of bargaining power.”

            “I knew none of this.”

            “Jakil Ultar planned this all on his own then?”

            “My father is an ambitious man. He can be secretive.”

            “You want me to believe that he would not discuss his plans with his eldest son?”

            Jakil Nhasi’s eyes narrowed into a rather ferocious glare. “You’re insisting that I am a traitor then?”

            “No, I’m implying that you might have seen an opportunity to seize power, just as your father did. Surely you know the value that Khamal has—our agriculture, our wealth, our water. I know you are not stupid; it might have been tempting and convenient, to conquer Khamal without sacrificing many of your own.”

            “Khamal and the Matij have lived in peace for centuries. As if I would prefer to have Mulli dogs in control of this city. It is insulting to me to be accused of treason when my men have secured the freedom of your city from the Mullis.”

            Dasaf turned to his men beside him and waved a hand. From the servant entrance, his men dragged a bound and blindfolded Jakil Ultar. The Matij men reached for their swords, and Dasaf could feel the tension in the room spike. He had to speak quickly if he didn’t want to start another war.

            “While your actions and motives are up for debate, your father’s are not. He attempted to murder both myself and my nephew, and this is a crime punishable by death.”

            The blindfold was removed from Jakil Ultar’s eyes, which retained a touch of madness.

            “Jakil Ultar, do you admit to this crime?” Dasaf asked.

            “I suppose there’s no point in denying it.”

            “You also claimed to have had a hand in the murder of my brother.”

            “Your father and mother were the Mullis’ doing entirely,” Jakil Ultar said with a touch of levity, and with less self-control, Dasaf might have beheaded him right there.

            “Did you share your plans with your son?” Dasaf asked.

            Jakil Ultar turned to his son, whose face had not lost any of its steel. Something passed between them, though Dasaf could not read it. If Jakil Nhasi was particularly desperate to save his father’s life, it did not show. Dasaf couldn’t remember much fondness between Jakil Ultar and Jakil Multeef either.

            “I did,” Jakil Ultar finally said after turning away from his son. “Nhasi helped me plan it. If one of your grunts had not murdered Ibahn, he would surely agree with me.”

            “He’s a liar,” Jakil Nhasi spat. “My father is attempting to put the blame on others for his own failed attempts at an uprising. It is not the Matij way!”

            “Coward,” Jakil Ultar replied. “You’ll say anything to save your own skin. I suppose you get that from your mother.”

            Dasaf wasn’t sure exactly what to do or whom to believe. When Jakil Nhasi opened his mouth to spew more hatred, Dasaf stood, exclaiming, “ _Enough_ ,” and bringing the whole room to silence. The Matij shifted, hands still clasped onto the grips of their swords.

            Dasaf looked to Malika. To his surprise, she stepped forward, her voice filling the chamber with sharp confidence that if it were a blade would draw blood. “Jakil Ultar’s crimes have been proven, and so he shall suffer the consequences. Jakil Nhasi, you have a choice. You can stand against us and fight or you can leave. Our forces have been weakened; this is true. However, if you fight, you will not be guaranteed a victory, and even if the odds play in your favor, you will have lost at least half of your army. Your tribes are now vulnerable, and we do not know if the Mullis will strike again. If you leave, you will be spared the wrath of Khamal. However, upon your departure you forfeit all rights of trade and military aid. All of our ties will be broken, and we will regard each other as Khamal does the Hahnars beyond the mountain—allies but never friends. Should the Mullis strike you, you may not call upon us for help, and should your tribes come upon hard times, our gates will be shut to you. Deliberate upon this, Jakil Nhasi, and deliver to us an answer.”

            Jakil Nhasi’s gaze fell to his father, who still knelt at the Khamal soldiers’ feet. Something like disdain crossed his features before he took a step forward, separating himself from his men.

            “The Matij have always viewed Khamal as friends before foes. I apologize for the crimes of my father, and would ask Khamal’s forgiveness. Please let us leave and return to our tribes.”

            “You _cowardly cur_!” Jakil Ultar snarled. “You could have the fortress of Khamal—you could take it from them now, when they are their weakest. Instead you quiver like a woman and take your first chance to run home with your tail between your legs.”

            “Jakil Ultar,” Malika said, voice light but deadly. “It would behoove you not to incriminate yourself further.”

            “I know I’m already a dead man,” Jakil Ultar growled. “I’ll not have some woman tell me what to do.”

            “If I tell you that you will lose your head, I’m certain it will happen,” Malika replied before turning back to Jakil Nhasi. “Make all haste in your departure, Jakil Nhasi, before we change our mind on offering you clemency.”

            Jakil Nhasi bowed briefly, then held a potent look with his father before marching away. His men parted to allow him passage, then trickled after him.

            “You taint the Jakil name!” Jakil Ultar shouted after him. “You are no son of mine!”  
            “Take him away,” Malika ordered the soldiers, and they gladly dragged him off, even as he continued to throw taunts at the son who could no longer hear him.

            “I’ve always wanted to say that,” Malika told Dasaf with a spark of humor in her eyes.

            Dasaf might have laughed if he could find the energy for it. Pressing his hands against his knees, he stood. But then his vision wobbled, and he stumbled backward, saved only by Malika’s grip on his arm.

            “What is wrong?” she asked.

            “I feel very dizzy,” Dasaf muttered, holding a hand to his head.

            “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

            “Slept _well_? I cannot recall.”

            “I’m sure you’ve lost blood as well. Come. We will find a place for you to rest.”

            “I cannot sleep when there are so many things that need done.”

            “I am Suman, am I not? I will take care of everything.”

            He might have argued with her, but he had seen her just dispel the Matij from their city. Underestimating Jhana Malika might have been Jakil Ultar’s downfall; it would not be Dasaf’s.

            Malika guided him through the corridors, past the filled rooms of groaning, wounded soldiers and and then onto his bedchambers. There were men in here as well, but she took him to the garden, which had been destroyed by the Mullis in his absence. When he sat on the gutted cushion in the alcove, Malika rushed into his room before returning with piles of blankets and one of his more comfortable caftans. With a touch of disdain, she pried open the knot that kept Raheed’s disgusting cloak hanging on him.

            “I’m naked under this,” Dasaf reminded her stupidly.   

            “I’m certain you won’t impress me,” she said, helping him peel the material from the patches of skin where it stuck with dried blood.            

            “Remind me later when I have more energy to upbraid you for that remark.”

            With Raheed’s cloak removed, Dasaf was able to slide into the caftan Malika offered. He would have loved a bath as well, but baths reminded him of Yussam’s headless body floating in the steaming water, and suddenly he didn’t want to bathe ever again.    

            “Sleep, Sumas Dasaf,” Malika teased as she pushed him down to the alcove bed. “All will be well when you wake.”

            If only that were true.


	38. What Remains

 

            Orange tendrils of torchlight flickered across mosaics as Raheed swept down the hall. He had just returned from the city, where his task (as well as fifty others) was to raise a cry of victory for the hiding civilians. At first the city had resembled deserted ruins, but as the horn bellowed mournfully, he spotted several children peaking out of doorways. One soldier in particular vanished inside of a house and returned with what appeared to be his mother and a sobbing babe. The baby was not the only one crying. Even the soldier’s cheeks were wet with tears as his mother kissed his cheeks over and over again. As these reunions continued, more flocked to the streets, and soon the city’s eerie quiet began to fade away. Nearly all of the soldiers who had ridden down with him ran to family and friends, some of whom fell to their knees and lifted their hands to the heavens in thanks. For the most part he was ignored, but he certainly received his share of suspicious glares. Old women would herd their children away from his horse, and someone threw a stone that did not quite strike his head. Deciding it was safer in the alcazar, Raheed rode back. The thrill of victory died when he realized that to these people, he was still the enemy. Could he blame them?

            Exhausted and broken, Raheed pushed through a door and crept over the bodies of sleeping men. Asan sat in the corner, his head drooped against his shoulder in slumber. When Raheed’s hand touched his shoulder, Asan jumped and pulled away before realizing who it was.

            “Raheed!” he exclaimed, and Raheed smiled. At least _someone_ was happy to see him.

            “Nutmeg,” Asan said, adjusting his makeshift bed as best as he could with his bandaged hands. “Need to get Nutmeg.”

            “Now? Where is she?”

            “In desert. Down by cliffs.”

            “I’m sure she’ll live until tomorrow. You need to rest.”

            “No, _you_ ,” Asan insisted, poking Raheed’s chest with one good finger. “Awake for two days!”

            Raheed couldn’t argue, because Asan was right. Not only was his strength drained, but his emotions were so depleted that the best he could muster was mild satisfaction.

            “Is there room in your bed for another?” Raheed asked. He could always sleep down in the stables with Ahmbra, but she might always shit on his head. Or step on it. Horses were not nearly so considerate in real life as they were in stories.

            Asan scooted sideways, patting the space beside him. Raheed collapsed, knowing he reeked of blood and sweat and whatever other liquids he’d gotten on him while assisting Leyla with the wounded. Asan didn’t seem to mind; once Raheed had adjusted himself, Asan curled up beside him and rested his head on Raheed’s chest. It was a position perhaps a bit too affectionate between friends, but Raheed couldn’t find it in himself to care. After so much death and destruction, it was enormously comforting to receive the touch of a friend. After smoothing Asan’s hair away from his face, Raheed drifted in and out of sleep until the sound of Asan’s steady breathing sent him sailing into the peaceful abyss of slumber.

 

* * *

 

            “There were a hundred prisoners taken.”

            Dasaf stared into the goblet of water in his hand. A fourth of his advisors sat around him, and Malika and Raheed had replaced two. The others were either dead or too injured to attend their early morning conference. Dasaf had hoped the Council might be able to reconvene, but some of the elders had been taken outside of the city limits with other civilians, for their own safety. It would take some time to restore everything to the way it was before the Mulli invasion, and some matters needed to be attended to immediately. None of his usual advisors approved of Raheed’s presence, but Dasaf insisted. The man was _faskii_ , but he had saved Dasaf’s life and perhaps the life of everyone here. Dasaf had entrusted traitors and distrusted one of the few who had bee reliable, so he was making amends.

            “Khamal takes no prisoners,” Malika said when Dasaf’s silence stretched on too long.

            “They were taken in error, but now we must know what to do with them.”

            “Are they in pain or injured?”

            “The majority of them are relatively unscathed.”

            “What are our options?” Malika assumed her role well, reaching forward to grasp her cup of wine and sip it delicately. Dasaf was prepared to leave her the responsibility and go back to sleep. His head was pounding, and there was a dryness in his throat that never receded no matter how much he drank.

            “We could keep them as prisoners.”  
            “Indefinitely?”

            “That is one option.”

            Malika shook her head. “What life is that, a life spent in a dungeon? And the cost to feed and house them would be an expense too great for the likes of a Mulli.”

            “We could sell them,” said another advisor hesitantly. “The Hahnars beyond the mountain are always buying.”

            “Raheed? What do you think?” Dasaf asked.

            “Hmm?” Raheed did not speak much Hahnar, so Dasaf translated.

            Raheed’s expression was grim. “The Hahnars do not want to purchase Mulli soldiers. It is illegal to buy a man marked as _bhanak_. And the ones you do manage to sell on the black market are tortured, maimed, and killed for sport. You would not be doing any of them a kindness by selling them.”

            “I thought as much,” Dasaf said, then translated Raheed’s replies for the others.

            “We could at least make a profit,” muttered Navid, one of his youngest advisors who suffered a broken nose but nothing more.

            “I will not profit off the death and suffering of anyone, even Mullis,” Dasaf replied sharply, more sharply than he intended.

            “There is no hope of turning them into allies?” one advisor asked.

            Malika shook her head. “They could never be trusted. Raheed at least has had a way to prove his loyalty. No such opportunity will arise for them, and I don’t want to take my chances.”

            “And letting them go?” suggested another.

            “That’s a hundred more Mullis we must fight if the Mullis return,” Dasaf said. “I think the answer is clear what we must do.”

            Malika held his gaze a moment, then nodded. “Yes. It is the only way.”

            Dasaf stood, feeling much heavier than he had just yesterday. It was as if someone had heaped bricks onto his shoulders and demanded he carry them up the mountain. After today, he knew the weight would bend him lower. But he would stand and bear them, because if he did not they would certainly crush him to death.

 

* * *

 

            The Mulli prisoners had been brought into the courthouse, manacled together and stripped of everything but their most basic garments. There was certainly an assortment, from middle-aged officers to hairless boys of sixteen. Dasaf ordered them into the yard so he could see them properly. Even draped in a fine green cloak embroidered with gold, Dasaf kept two swords about his waist as well as a dagger, in case his stature alone did not strike fear in them. He wore the Khamal scorpion prominently upon his breast, a symbol they had tried to erase. As he paced along the row of them, anger stewed in him. It was their own stupid fault they were here. They could have run. They could have resisted. The Mulli Empire kept their slaves on short leashes, but there were more _bhanak_ s than Mulli-by-bloods. If they banded together, surely they could have defeated the Mulli Empire. Yet they followed blindly and did not think, and in their ignorance they wrought destruction upon the world. He hated them. He pitied them. He wanted revenge for all the women and children who would not have fathers, brothers, and sons to greet ever again.

            Many of the Mullis would not meet his eyes. Several boys even trembled as he walked by. There was an officer who faced him with a stiff jaw, but Dasaf could even see fear in his eyes. Dasaf resisted the urge to spit at his feet. Murderers. All of them.

            Dasaf paused at the end of the line. There was a man there with a sparse beard, marking him as part of the enlisted ranks. Why was he familiar? He was a shorter, heavier-set man with downcast eyes and ears much too large for his head. Not particularly handsome, seemingly meek. Dasaf recalled the squat gray mare he’d ridden.

            “You.” Dasaf grabbed the man’s chin and forced his head up. “What is your name?”  
            The man pressed his lips together and did not speak.

            “Corporal Waqas,” Dasaf heard over his shoulder. He turned to Raheed, who had stopped just behind him.

            “You know him?” Dasaf asked.

            “He was in my troop for a time,” Raheed said. “Hello, Corporal.”

            “Traitor,” Corporal spat at Raheed.

            Raheed only looked saddened by the remark. “I can’t betray an empire that was never mine, Waqas.”

            “You’d rather be one of _them_?” Corporal Waqas jerked his head at Dasaf. “They will never see you that way.”

            Raheed looked to Dasaf, as if out of ideas.

            “You gave me water in the desert,” Dasaf told Waqas after a long silence. “Did you not?”

            The anger slipped momentarily from Waqas’s features. Color touched the tips of his ears, but he said nothing.

            “Why would you show any kindness toward a Hahnar?” Dasaf asked.

            “Every man deserves some dignity,” Waqas muttered.

            “I can’t imagine the Mulli Empire teaching you such a thing.”

            “Corporal Waqas has more character than most Mullis, Dasaf,” Raheed said. “I can attest to that personally.”

            Dasaf looked down the long line of Mulli soldiers. Finally he came to a decision.

            “If I set you free,” Dasaf began, “I need you to deliver a message for me.”

            Waqas was stunned. “A message?”

            “For the Empire you fight for. I suppose they’ll hear of their defeat in some way; I’d prefer they hear it from me. Perhaps it will make them think again about challenging Khamal.”  
            “You can’t know he’ll deliver it. He could run away,” Raheed said.

            “Then that is his decision, not mine.” Dasaf turned back to Waqas. “Know Khamal shows compassion and mercy to those who deserve it. For your deeds, you are being rewarded. I hope you tell this to the Empire as well—perhaps by some miracle, they will learn by example.”

            Waqas didn’t appear to know what to say, but Dasaf wouldn’t have cared much about it either way. This was not for Waqas as much as it was for Dasaf. Maybe this one deed of goodwill would atone for the fate of the other Mullis.

            Waqas was unlocked from the chain of the others and manacled separately. Then he was taken back to the dungeons so that he could be prepared for his journey. It reminded Dasaf of Raheed so many years ago, when Dasaf had released him thinking he’d never see the man again. God had a cruel sense of humor, but Dasaf was glad for it. Raheed had proven himself most useful, despite Dasaf’s stupidity getting in the way.

            “What is to become of the rest?” Raheed asked hesitantly, as if he already knew the answer. Dasaf was sure he did.

            “The axe,” Dasaf replied curtly.

            Raheed swallowed, then nodded. “Mullis know the consequences of capture.”

            Dasaf strode past him, headed toward the group of soldiers who waited for his command. “Let us begin,” he said.

            The prisoners were returned to their cells, all but one. He was a Mulli of thicker build with ruddy features and greasy hair. He looked like a crook, but how could Dasaf know? Maybe there was a gentle nature within him Dasaf would never find. For such a task, it was easier to assume him a monster than face his humanity.

            Two soldiers stepped forward, carrying the block that Dasaf’s own neck had been pressed against. Another carried the axe. Men would take turns wielding it, some who volunteered and others who accepted the duty with reluctance. No one had asked Dasaf if he would accept the honor, and Dasaf had not supplied an answer.

            For the first soldier, there was a long pause, the tension of anticipation. The soldier swinging his weapon wanted to get the angle right, to assure a clean death. When the axe finally fell, the gore of the white spine peeking out from the red flesh of the neck didn’t strike Dasaf as horrifying. In fact, by this point he was totally numb. He might as well have been watching a butcher cut the meat off of the rib of a goat.

            The body was cleared away. The next was brought out, blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back. He struggled against his bonds and the grips of the soldiers who held him, and when he was forced to his knees, he cried out “ _Fuck the Hahnar dogs_!” before his head was dragged down to the block by his hair. He fought and screamed, barely contained by the efforts of those who held him. The men were not so slow to swing the axe this time. When his headless body fell to the side, one of the soldiers spit on it, and another made a joke under his breath that another laughed at. Perhaps before the battle the men might have found the sight gruesome, but they were used to it now. This was nothing.

            The procession continued. Raheed had vanished; Dasaf assumed he couldn’t watch the execution of his brethren. Dasaf felt vaguely ill by the twentieth man, and around the time he lost count was when his head began to ache and his stomach roll. He would have done anything to turn away and leave the execution to his men, but that was not what a true Sumas did. His father would have stayed here and watched. His brother would have too. So Dasaf kept his feet planted there, fighting the sickness that rose in him, his determination battling with the disgust his past self would have succumbed to.

            One Mulli soldier was bought forward, handled so roughly that the blindfold around his eyes fell away. His expression was frozen in fear, and Dasaf imagined he was about twenty or so. There was something eerily familiar about him, about the curve of his hair, the shape of his jaw. Mostly it was his eyes that kept Dasaf’s attention. They were large and black, framed by delicate lashes, blown wide by terror. Without the smears of muck and blood across his face, he might have been a handsome young man. Why did Dasaf feel as if he knew him? As if he remembered the light in his smile and the strange hiccup of his laugh?

            Because he looked like Asan.

            In fact, the closer the men brought him and the more Dasaf could see, Dasaf began to wonder if this boy was some distant relative of Asan’s. Perhaps a close relative. As the young man was shoved to the ground, Dasaf found himself taking a step forward, throat tightening with words that would not come. _Stop this_. _Don’t hurt him_.

            A sob fell from the man’s lips. Was it his? Was it Dasaf’s? Was it Asan’s? It sounded so similar. Dasaf clenched his eyes shut, afraid he was dreaming. When he opened them, he didn’t see the Mulli at all. He saw Asan pinned to the chopping block, tears running down his face, big black eyes staring right at Dasaf, right _through_ him. Terror, hatred, anger, love—all of it seemed to flash across his face. His lips were pulled apart in a grimace of despair. He did not speak, but Dasaf knew what he was asking: _why_?

            There was a thud. Blood sprayed. Asan’s head fell to the ground, his body slouching sideways.      

            “ _NO_!” Dasaf shouted, shoving his men aside and leaping forward. His arm stretched toward the head, but when he rolled it over, it was not Asan that looked up at him, but the head of Haadi, the eyes rotted, the mouth stretched open and frozen in a terrible howl.

            Dasaf scrambled backwards, screaming. Hands grasped him, trying to steady him, holding him down, keeping him prisoner. He shoved them away, finding his feet just long enough to run, run until he reached the stable yard, where he collapsed against a wall. His knees gave out and he fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.

            _You will not cry_ , Haadi’s voice sneered in his ear. _Or God so help me, I will take your life_.

            Dasaf tried to stand and couldn’t. He sucked in air, but his attempts were ineffectual. He choked on the violent sobs tearing through his throat, stealing what little breath he had left. His stomach clenched, and then whatever meager breakfast he’d had came rolling out of him, oozing to the dirt in a string of saliva and stomach juice. He vomited until there was nothing else but air, and when he finally did manage to suck in a few breaths, they stung his burned throat.

            When Dasaf tried to stand, he lost his balance and ended up on all fours. He stared down at his trembling hands, scrambling for control of his own body and failing. He didn’t know what was happening, but it seemed as if he’d just woken up from a terrible nightmare.

            He heard footsteps coming closer. Unwilling to appear weak in front of a servant, Dasaf sat up. The approaching figure wasn’t a servant at all, but Raheed—even _worse_ than a servant seeing him like this.

            Raheed held out a hand for him. Dasaf took it, though he needed a few tries to find his feet again.

            “I saw . . .” Dasaf looked over his shoulder. “I saw . . . terrible things.”

            “I know,” Raheed answered. “It’s a side-effect of trauma.”

            “Asan—I saw Asan beheaded,” Dasaf gasped, feeling the approach of tears again.

            “He wasn’t. It’s just your imagination.”

            “But—Haadi—I saw him too . . .” Dasaf inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. Yet when he did this, Haadi’s terrible rotted head came to him again. “I think I need to sit down.”

            Raheed grabbed a nearby stool, and Dasaf sat. Raheed crouched beside him, using the broken handle of a whip lying nearby to draw patterns in the dirt. The smell and sounds of horses nearby helped calm Dasaf’s racing heart. His head thunked against the stable wall as he looked upward.

            “You’ve suffered from this then?” Dasaf asked, voice weak.

            “Yes.”

            “You’ve seen things?”

            Raheed’s eyes were focused on the designs he traced. “Yes.”

            “Does it go away?”

            “Sometimes,” was Raheed’s answer.

            Dasaf looked into the distance. He noticed several men heading this way, looking for him. His stomach tightened at the thought of bearing witness to one more death.

            “I need to see him,” Dasaf told Raheed softly. “I need to see Asan.”

            “He’s probably sleeping. Leyla’s had him on some pretty powerful sedatives, for the pain.”

            “I will see him anyway.”

            Raheed sighed and stood. “You go to the alcazar. I will stay and take over your duties.”

            “You can’t even speak Hahnar.”  
            “I can speak enough.”

            Dasaf looked up at Raheed. The sunlight at his back bathed his features in shadows. “They are your brethren, aren’t they?”

            “They never were,” Raheed replied. “The only thing we have in common was the brand on our necks.” Raheed reached back and slid his fingers beneath the folds of his robes to run along the brand put there years ago. Dasaf did not touch his, but he still felts its burn. If all that made men brethren was a mark, then perhaps Raheed was more of a brother than Dasaf had thought.

            Dasaf stood. His head swam for a moment, but he was able to fight it. With a nod at Raheed, Dasaf snuck around the back of the stables and headed up toward the alcazar, hoping none of his men saw him. He felt like a child running away like this, but his reaction to the executions was both embarrassing and horrific. Would his men speak ill of him? Call him weak?

            Right now, it didn’t much matter to Dasaf.

            Dasaf ran across Leyla in the alcazar, and she informed him where Asan was located. Luckily she was too distracted to make any remarks, so Dasaf was spared that. When he pushed back the door, there were only three men in the room, and they all seemed to be sleeping. Asan was lying on his side, bisected by the light piercing through the window. His hands and ear were bandaged, his skin lightly oiled with perhaps something to keep it from cracking. Dasaf had a similar problem from his trek to Khamal—the sun was a cruel onlooker. But at least Asan appeared to be breathing properly, and his sleep looked peaceful.

            Stepping over the other bodies, Dasaf sat down at Asan’s side. Beyond the window, birds sang to each other. He saw one swoop down to the roof across the garden, hopping along the tiles in an attempt to steal another’s blade of grass. Their silly antics should have made Dasaf feel better, but it only made him hate humanity and the torture it brought upon itself.

            His eyes fell back to Asan. He couldn’t help but reach out and push a lock of hair off of his cheek. A flash of Dasaf’s hallucination came to him, Asan’s eyes locked in terror, his mouth contorted, his head twisting as it fell to the dirt. Dasaf shoved his face into the fold of his elbow to stop the onslaught of images. It wasn’t real. It hadn’t happened. His mind was merely playing with him. He tried to regain control of his breathing. He had killed perhaps more than a hundred Mullis, and yet it was Asan that would unravel him.

            Unable to resist, Dasaf reached out again and with feather-light touch, brushed Asan’s cheek with his knuckles. Asan’s eyelashes fluttered, but he slept on. Dasaf hoped his dreams were not filled with blood and screaming like Dasaf’s had been last night. Dasaf would bear the weight of such terrors if it meant Asan did not have to suffer them.

            “All of your injuries are my fault,” Dasaf told Asan, keeping his voice soft so that he did not wake the others. “If I had not threatened Raheed, you would not have left. What you said to me . . .” He pressed his lips together, feeling something dark and heavy bubbling up inside of him. It filled his throat like a cold tentacle, so Dasaf fought it. He would not sink below the surface. He was a _Darim_ , and Darims did not cry. His ancestors had rebelled against the Hahnars and won. They built the massive walls that kept them safe, and they’d watched over their people for generations. There were no stories of them crying. There were no tales of them fearing the sight of an execution, and there was no _Darim_ in history followed by the title _The Weary_. There were only Scorpions, men of iron and might, men who would drink the blood of their enemies and only smile as it dripped down their beards. A breath did not extinguish their flames—it only made them burn taller and hotter than ever. Dasaf felt no flame now, only a pit where he had dropped all of his failures. It was a pit with no bottom, a pit that could never be filled. He felt the legacy of his brother and father dragging him closer to it, pushing his face toward the blackness, demanding that he _look_ and _look hard_. But there was nothing to see, for there was no light or warmth down there, no fires to burn.

            The string holding Dasaf aloft broke, and he dove beneath the surface. The slick swallowed him as his sobs returned, so overwhelming that it took both hands over his mouth to keep them quiet. He waited for Haadi’s voice to castigate him, but there was nothing, only the echo of  his own sniveling. Perhaps even Dasaf’s memories of Haadi had left in disgust.

            “I’m sorry,” Dasaf whimpered to an oblivious Asan. He dug his face into his raised knees, waiting for the floor to swallow him. “Oh Asan, I am sorry.”

            The birds outside finished their feud and fluttered away, taking their songs with them.

  

* * *

 

            Raheed attended the funeral pyre with the rest. He had followed the train of people walking up the mountain until they reached the pinnacle. The dead were carried up as well, followed by their weeping families dressed in the white of mourning. Fires were made, and prayers were said. Raheed only recognized Shallaf. The advisor was quickly doused with the water of cleansing, then oil. Two sheathes of wheat were placed in the hands that crossed his chest, and a tin scorpion pin was centered at his throat. It was a dignified pose, one that suited the man. Raheed couldn’t find it in him to cry, however. He could think of more tragic deaths.

            Dasaf sat on his horse at Raheed’s side, his face utterly expressionless as the firelight glittered in his stoic eyes. Beside him was Malika, seated rod straight on her own horse, her head covered in a long white veil that fluttered out behind her. She had a regality to her that Raheed had to respect, a strength that even Raheed envied.       Eventually the prayers ended and families began their trek back down the mountain. As Ahmbra navigated the rocky terrain at the base of the decline, Raheed turned around and peered up at the bonfires still roaring high overhead. The sight of it inspired in Raheed a faith in _some_ God, be He Hahnar or Mulli.

            After bringing Asan some soup and milk of poppy, Raheed made his way to the kitchens, where he was able to sweet talk Fasa out of some wine. She offered to help him finish it, so they went to a courtyard together and sat on the edge of a broken fountain, taking turns sipping from the bottle.

            “I can’t believe you slipped out of the dungeons to come fight,” Raheed told her. “That was an entirely moronic thing for you to do.”

            “I’m alive, aren’t I? You’re just sore because I saved your ass.” She smirked around the lip of the wine bottle as she took a swig.

            “I’m thankful of that, actually. I still think it was stupid.”

            “I’m sure you’ve never done anything stupid, _Captain Raheed_.”

            “Shall I provide you a list?”

            “What has been the craziest, stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

            Raheed lifted his eyes to the night sky, trying to think of something. Finally: “I told Dasaf that the general of the Mulli army was my _jusef_ so that he’d save both of our lives.”

            Fasa choked on her wine. “ _Yussam_?”

            “Fuck no. General Mamid.”

            “ _Jusef_ , huh? You know what that is?”

            “Yes.”

            She snickered.

            “I also flirted with Hahnars to steal some camels.”

            Her eyes lit up with mischief. “Hahnars beyond the mountain?”

            “Yes.”

            “The Hahnars beyond the mountains like their boys. That’s what the servants all say. They said they’re terrified of bastards, so the rich ones will get male slaves called _zhalja_ to entertain them and occasionally suckle their cocks.”

            Raheed nearly scolded her for her language, but he’d gotten used to it by now. Fasa had no interest in being a proper lady, and he rather liked it.

            “Sometimes those slaves will be Mulli-by-bloods they capture as the spoils of war,” Fasa continued. “I’m sure you know what they do with the _bhanaks_.”

            Raheed nodded.

            “I don’t know who is more fucked up, the Mullis or the Hahnars.”

            “The Khamal Hahnars seem a bit somewhere in the middle.”

            Fasa tipped her head back to look at the sky. “I like it here. I think I will stay.”

            Raheed took the wine from her. “I think I may as well. It isn’t as if there’s any other place that’s any better.”

            “You’re only interested in staying because you’re in _love_ ,” Fasa teased, sticking her tongue out at him.

            “Drink your wine and keep your mouth shut.”

            Fasa smirked but did as he asked.

            Raheed turned when he heard light footsteps behind him. He saw Leyla approaching, resembling a ghost in her white robes and veil. She nearly glowed in the darkness, a beacon of beauty as always.

            “Perhaps I should go,” Fasa said, winking rather obnoxiously in Raheed’s direction. When she stood, she bowed slightly in Leyla’s direction. “ _Shuman_.”

            Leyla nodded but said nothing. Fasa took off as Raheed stood, wondering if he should try to hide the evidence of the wine in his hand.

            “Is it wrong to drink on the night of a funeral?” he asked at her somber expression.

            “No.”

            “Oh.” He looked down at the bottle. “Do you want any?”

            A small smile crossed her mouth. “I think I will pass.”

            “Right.” Raheed didn’t want to leave it, because it _was_ good wine. So he just hid it behind his back.

            “I heard Darim Altaf’s condition was improving.”

            “Yes, I think he will make a full recovery.”

            “That is good to know.”

            “How is Asan feeling?”

            “Better. He keeps asking about his camel. I’ll have to go down and find the damn thing so he’ll stop bothering me about it.”

            Leyla’s smile seemed more authentic this time. “He is such a gentle soul.”

            “Says you. He was quite a biter when I first met him.”

            Leyla laughed, then took his arm. “Can we talk somewhere more privately?”  
            Raheed _definitely_ liked the sound of that. “Of course. Where do you have in mind?”

            “Nowhere in the alcazar. There are still so many people. The stables perhaps?”

            With Leyla’s arm threaded through his, they walked down to the stables. The breeze was stiff, so Raheed draped his cloak over Leyla’s shoulders. Perhaps eventually he’d learn all the rules of being a proper gentleman to a proper lady. Then again, he wasn’t sure how proper Leyla was. She took his wine when they got to the stables and had a few generous sips.

            “I want to see Ahmbra,” she said.

            Raheed took her to Ahmbra’s stall. Leyla unbolted the lock and slipped inside, her fingers grasping around Raheed’s sleeve. Once in the stall, she slammed the gate shut and backed Raheed up against the stall wall, her mouth devouring his. It was all Raheed could do to keep from dropping his wine. Once he’d regained his bearings, he slipped his arms around her waist and held her tight against him, eventually sliding his hand up her back to hold the back of her head. One of her hands slipped through his hair while the other spanned out across his stomach and then along his waist.

            Leyla suddenly jolted against him, and she pulled back. “Did you just pinch my rear?”

            “No.”

            They both turned to Ahmbra, who was sniffing them curiously. She was known to bite when ignored.

            “Someone’s a bit _jealous_ ,” Raheed said with a smirk at Ahmbra.

            Leyla smiled slightly, but it faded. Raheed finally realized that something may be wrong.

            “Something troubling you?” Raheed asked. After all, it wasn’t much like her to haul him out into the dark and kiss him against a wall, though of course he’d never complain.

            “I just attended a mass funeral, Raheed.”

            “Oh, right.” Raheed had forgotten that death bothered most people. By this point he’d seen so many men die that he was rather adept at stepping out of himself. He hadn’t known any of the Hahnar men, and the one that he _did_ know had treated Raheed poorly. Raheed attempted to react in the most empathetic manner, but Leyla frowned anyway.

            “Leyla . . .” Raheed sighed. “I have seen enough funerals for a lifetime. I have seen men die in every possible way, and I have watched them all buried or burned. Vaguely I remember what it’s like to feel the sting of it, but . . .” He shook his head. “I will try to understand for you.”

            Leyla’s ire lasted a few more moments before she dropped her head to his shoulder. Her fingers curled around the pin on his cloak, a scorpion Raheed had been given after the men’s bodies had been stripped in funeral preparation. It felt so odd to wear it, and yet it felt more meaningful to him than any insignias he’d worn before it.

            “I tried to save them,” she whispered against Raheed’s throat. “But I usually failed.”

            “You’re a healer, not a miracle worker.”

            “A miracle worked for you.” She tipped her chin back, her eyes glittering in the darkness. “No one would have ever thought you’d live.”

            “Perhaps someone had a plan for me.”

            She leaned her forehead against his chin, and he ducked down to kiss it. Her arms slipped around him, and they stood in silence for a few minutes, just holding one another. Raheed had liked the kissing, but he enjoyed this too. This was something deeper than physical touch, and he was glad that Leyla had decided him trustworthy enough to share it with him.         

            “I see their faces.” Her voice was delicate, threatened by tears. “I knew some would die just looking at them. But their eyes watched me with such hope and I—I had to lie. I couldn’t tell them the truth. I assured them everything would be fine.”

            “Some men need the lie to believe.”

            “I came across a few Mullis who had survived. I never thought I’d feel any empathy after what they’d done but . . . I suppose men are equal before the gates of death.”

            “And loyalty is trivial.” Raheed trailed a hand up her back and down again. “It’s a shame we only realize this at the moment when it no longer matters.”                    “I brought you out here to—I just wanted to forget. I’m so tired of their deaths weighing on me. I wanted to prove that I could be happy again.” She tilted her head back as she lifted her hand to touch his mouth, and he kissed her fingertips.

            “Can you?” he asked, grasping her hand and kissing the palm of it.

            “Might take a bit more time,” she replied with a hint of levity.  

            “Is anyone expecting you?”

            “No.”

            Raheed grasped her head and kissed her hard, tasting a hint of smoke and wine. As she melted against him, he was sure he never wanted to kiss another mouth again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying illustration is [here](https://31.media.tumblr.com/6938cd0e1c43d6f5c3c012f857b559b4/tumblr_n2m49maCLA1rey5qco1_500.jpg), cuz AO3 won't let me post it in the story itself. SHOCKER. 
> 
> PTSD is a bitch. :/


	39. Gifts

 

            Someone clambering on his bed woke Dasaf. His hand reached for his sword, but of course he wasn’t wearing anything more than a thin white caftan. Fear turned his blood to ice, and his muscles seized in preparation. When his eyes finally shot open, it was not Yussam sitting on him but a grinning Altaf.

            “Hello Uncle,” he greeted cheerfully.

            Dasaf struggled to rise, his arms aching. He had not gotten much sleep, and what he had gotten had not been pleasant. He attempted his best smile, though it hurt his face. 

            “You’re walking,” Dasaf said.

            “I’m nearly back to normal. Still feel a little dizzy at times, but Aunt Leyla says it should pass.” Altaf sat back on his haunches, his smile fading. “Uncle? Are you alright?”

            “Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.” Dasaf ran a hand across his sweaty forehead. “I’m ecstatic that you are well! Surely this calls for a celebration.”

            “Mama says there’s a victory festival in the city tonight. All of the soldiers will be honored.”           

            “I suppose I’m expected to attend this festival.”

            “Uncle!” Altaf chided, sounding frightfully like his mother. “You are the hero! All the servants have told me stories, which they must have gotten from the soldiers. Did you really ride around on a horse naked with the Mulli?”

            Dasaf sighed. He should have expected Altaf’s curiosity, but he’d rather not discuss that battle or say _Mulli_ ever again if he could help it. “His name is Raheed, Altaf.”

            “The soldiers were talking about him too. They call him the Mulli Traitor.”

            “That’s not very nice.”

            “Well, it’s _true_. It’s not a _bad_ thing.” Altaf slid off of Dasaf’s bed and stood. “Mother wanted me to wake you for breakfast.”

            Dasaf rubbed his forehead, resting an elbow on his knee. “I don’t think I can come, Altaf. Would you ask a servant to bring me my tea and bread here?”

            Altaf’s brow furrowed. “But _why_? Everyone wants to know about the battle! How many Mullis did you kill, Uncle? I bet it was more than a hundred.”

            “Perhaps I can enlighten you later,” Dasaf said with a patient but strained smile. “For now, I think I need some more rest.”

            Pouting, Altaf hastily bowed and left. Dasaf flopped back down into his small pyramid of pillows and rested an arm across his eyes. A _victory festival_. If he couldn’t even entertain his nephew, what would it be like with a thousand people crawling over him asking for stories? Perhaps he’d send Raheed in his stead.

            Raheed.

            Dasaf rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. He poked his head out of the door, and the soldier standing nearby jolted to attention.

            “You,” Dasaf ordered. He didn’t know this man; his usual guard must have died in the fight. “Get me Raheed.”

            “Yes, Sumas.”

            The guard marched away and Dasaf returned to his bed. After Dasaf’s tea and bread arrived, so did Raheed.

            “You wanted me?” Raheed asked.

            “Sit,” Dasaf said through a full mouth. He tossed a loaf of flat bread at Raheed, who barely caught it. “Eat.”

            Raheed sat and ate.

            “So my men are calling you the Mulli Traitor.”

            “I suppose it’s better than _the Mulli_ , eh?” 

            “I’d rather they call you by your name, after all you’ve done for us.”   

            Raheed appeared confused. “Am I to understand that you don’t despise me anymore?”

            Dasaf chewed on his bread thoughtfully before finally answering, “You saved my life. And Asan’s.”                      

            “You did threaten to cut my head off.”

            “Do you want me to apologize for that?”

            Raheed shrugged. Dasaf supposed that after all that had happened, they didn’t need any formal gestures of comradery. Raheed had proven himself in battle, and Dasaf couldn’t find any remains of the rage that had sent Asan away.

            “I suppose Asan would be more interested in an apology than you,” Dasaf said.

            “Asan’s grudges last far longer than mine. Have you spoken with him?”         

             “No.”

            “He’s asked about you.”

            “Really?” Damn him. Even Dasaf caught the hint of hope in his voice, so he supposed he wasn’t hiding his true affections terribly well. “Well, you can assure him that I’m well.”

            “ _You_ could tell that him yourself. I’m not your messenger.”                             

            Speaking of a messenger . . . “Whatever happened to Asan’s dog?”

            “It was killed by the Mullis.”

            “Oh.” Dasaf knew Asan would be heartbroken over that. Dasaf forced himself to move on. “I did not bring you here to discuss Asan.”

            “Then what—”

            “I think you have more than proven yourself, Raheed. You could have betrayed us a hundred times over, but you never faltered. A man I trusted was a traitor, and a man I thought a man without conscience ended up saving my life. I let that Mulli corporal live because of his good deeds. I think it’s about time I rewarded you for yours.”

            Raheed shifted in apparent discomfort. “It’s not really necessary—”

            “Have you given thought to what you’ll do now? Have you any skills?”

            “Well . . .” Raheed’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I, uh, have a rather thorough knowledge of brothels?”

            Dasaf tried not to laugh, but he did anyway. “I’m sure Khamal has a few of those, but you do have skill with a sword. Nowhere near _my_ skill of course, but you kept my head on my shoulders during the battle. Normally that would be Shallaf’s duty, and he did it well, all the way until the end.” Dasaf paused, chest tightening at the thought of Shallaf. He plowed onward, afraid of stopping. “What I wanted to ask is if you would care to fill the position of head advisor.”

            Raheed blinked in shock, then looked around as if there were someone else in the room to explain to him. Finally he pointed to himself. “ _Me_? A Mulli?”

            “You’re not _really_ Mulli,” Dasaf said. “You’re _bhanak_. There may be some decency they haven’t swept clean.”

            “I—I’m _honored_ of course, but perhaps another man would be better suited. I don’t know the language—”

            “You can learn it.”

            “Alright, but . . . I haven’t even said if I was going to stay. Perhaps I wanted to leave for brighter horizons.”

            Dasaf lifted an eyebrow. “And I imagine you’ll leave my sister heartbroken?”

            “Your . . .” Raheed’s confusion thickened. “Don’t you _want_ me to leave your sister be?”

            Dasaf sighed. Perhaps this was not the best idea. “Maybe I saw a bit of what she saw in you.”

            At least Raheed wasn’t entirely lost, because he smirked. “It’s my good looks, isn’t it?”         

            “Don’t test me.”

            “Alright, alright. If you really do want me to stay, I will consider it. But I don’t think your Council and family will think well of your choice.”

            “They are not _Sumas_. The Council has no say over my own appointments. My advisors are entirely my decision. They will certainly complain and think me mad, but I’m sure with enough explanation of your loyalty during battle, they will see it my way. I’m sure Leyla will vouch for you as she always has.”  

            “And so I would live here? In the alcazar?”

            “If you’d like.”

            Raheed craned his head back to look at the ceiling, then the walls around them. “It’s not so bad.”

            Dasaf chuckled. “Like I said, don’t test me.”

            “Can I have some time to consider?”

            “Of course.”

            “Thank you.” Raheed finished off the rest of the bread Dasaf had shared with him before standing and bowing. “I’ll have your answer by tomorrow.”

            Once Raheed had left, Dasaf sank back into his pillows and stared down into his honey-colored tea. He hoped he had made the right choice.

 

* * *

 

            Dasaf had thought that by dressing in dark, unassuming robes and riding an unremarkable chestnut that he might go unnoticed at the festival, especially without his full beard. Not attending at all would have been preferable, but he didn’t even entertain that possibility. His people needed to recover from their trauma, and they deserved to have their Sumas celebrate with them. It was a relief to see that Altaf at least was enjoying himself. Several boys had come to him on their donkeys, begging for a race. After receiving Dasaf’s approval, Altaf kicked his horse into a canter down the street, the boys whooping and trotting their donkeys behind him.

            The dead were honored with ribbons, flowers, and trinkets draped on the temple walls and littered about the steps leading into it. Musicians played a few dirges before shifting into more cheerful tunes, and the respectful murmur grew boisterous. More food would have been brought if the Mullis hadn’t ransacked everything they’d found. No one complained though, and soon it seemed as if the whole city had congregated in the cobblestone square before the main temple. He was immediately spotted and hailed. Men cried out their gratitude, and women came to him with flower garlands, sliding them around his neck when he bent to accept them. One innovative man began to sing a tune in Dasaf’s honor, and soon several others clapped their hands and joined along.

            Leyla pulled her horse beside his, smirking. “The women want to know if it’s true you were naked during the battle.”

            “I was not,” Dasaf protested, and those nearby who could hear laughed. Dasaf forced a smile in their direction. “I wasn’t _entirely_ naked.”

            Two young women to Dasaf’s left hid their giggles behind their hands. Normally Dasaf might have sent them his usual flirtatious wink, but he didn’t this time. He wondered why he should even encourage them.

            “They’ve said the Mulli Traitor nearly beheaded you!” said one.

            “But then he saved you just before the deed was done!”

            “I was entirely _in control_ of the situation. He did not save anyone. And his name is _Raheed_ , if you don’t mind.”

            “Since when do you care what they call him?” Leyla asked.

            “I suppose my next head advisor should be addressed by his name.”

            Leyla’s eyes stretched wide. “Are you being serious?”

            “He hasn’t confirmed yet, but I’m sure he will.”

            Leyla had been looking tired lately, but the smile that touched her lips now was the essence of loveliness. She reached out to squeeze his arm. “You’re a changed man then?”

            If only she knew to what extent. “I suppose I am.”

            “Well, this is lovely news. I’m sure Malika won’t agree.”

            “When has Malika agreed with anything I’ve done?”  
            “I don’t know. She’s had nothing but praise for you since the battle ended.”

            Malika? Praising him? What an omen. Perhaps fire would rain down from the sky tomorrow.

            “Is Raheed here?” Dasaf asked Leyla.

            “Oh yes. He went to find me something to eat.”

            Dasaf gave her a look, and Leyla smirked.

            “I see he’s under your heel already.”

            She arched her neck with and adopted an expression of utter innocence. “Only as much as he wants to be.” She turned and pointed. “There he is now.”

            Indeed, Raheed was pushing his way through the crowd, trailing his horse and a camel. The camel gave Dasaf pause, and when he looked harder, he spotted Asan walking just a few strides behind his Mulli soldier. Panic tightened Dasaf’s throat.         

            “I have something I need to attend to,” Dasaf said quickly, wheeling his horse around.        

            “Dasaf? Where are you—Dasaf!”

            He was too far away to answer her. It was difficult to slip into the crowd without notice when they kept crying out to him, but even if Asan did see him, he was too far away to make any contact.

            The crowds thinned the further into the city Dasaf rode, and finally he was standing alone in an alleyway, barely able to see through the darkness. He heard a strange mewling, then the slam of a door as a woman rushed into the alleyway to shoo off what looked like a hungry dog. She paused at the sight of Dasaf, her face falling in fear. He imagined she couldn’t see him very well from where he stood, so he dismounted and approached her on foot.

            “Shuma,” she greeted hesitantly. She didn’t seem to recognize him, which he didn’t find odd—Khamal was large enough to prevent everyone from knowing his face, and his beard was paltry compared to its former glory. She did see his horse, however, and she probably assumed he was noble.

            “Shuman,” he replied, bowing his head slightly. “What is that sound?”

            “Oh, this dog here’s got some puppies,” the woman said, gesturing toward the mangy dog imploring her with big brown eyes. “I come out and feed her when I can, though my husband’s not too happy about it.”

            “Are the puppies nearby?”  
            “Oh, they’re right down that alley.” The woman gestured vaguely toward a narrow gap between two houses. “The mother’s very gentle, so my children have been handling the poor little beasts.”

            It gave Dasaf an idea. “Could I see them?”  
            She shrugged. “They aren’t mine, shuma. You can do whatever you like. The mother won’t bite.”

            Dasaf squeezed himself through the gap between the houses until he reached the nest of rags, twigs, and hay that must have been crafted by the woman’s children. In the center slept four puppies, all the same dusty brown with small splotches of white. His approach woke one of them, and it regarded him curiously and without fear. He bent, resting his elbows on his knees. Eventually the puppy wobbled to a stand and rushed over to him, stumpy tail wagging. He imagined it was of weaning age, judging by its size. It grabbed the edge of his cloak and pulled, then licked his hand when he reached to pet it.

            “Such a ferocious predator,” he joked. It was a tiny thing now, but the mother was the size of a sheep, so he figured it would mature rather large. When the puppy tried pulling at Dasaf’s cloak again, he put his hands around its middle and picked it up.

            “Female,” he muttered to himself before standing. The puppy tried to lick his face, and when that proved unsuccessful, it began to nip at his fingers. “Hey. Stop that.”

            When he returned to the street, the woman was waiting, leaning on her broom. “What do you want with a mutt like that, shuma? It’s got the blood of scavengers and beggars.”

            Dasaf cradled the pup in the crook of his arm. “Some scavengers and beggars have the hearts of kings, shuman. You don’t mind if I keep this?”

            “My children might be a tad upset, but it’s a fact of life they’ll learn.” She smiled gently. “Can I ask why you’re here instead of attending the festival?”  
            “Why aren’t you?”

            She looked away. “I lost my son to the battle. I’m not quite ready to celebrate yet.”

            Dasaf would have liked to place a hand on her shoulder in consolation, but he decided she might not appreciate the gesture. So instead he simply nodded. “I’m sure he fought bravely.”  
            “He died so that we all could live.” Her voice was light yet weak. “What better thing could you die for?”

            “Indeed.” Dasaf bowed to her. “May God be good to you, shuman.”

            “God be with you,” she replied before pulling a scrap of food from her pocket and tossing it at the dog still hopefully lingering. The food was gone with one snap of its jaws.

            Dasaf removed his cloak and wrapped it around the pup in a makeshift sling. It freed his hands so that he could more easily mount his horse. The puppy squirmed initially but eventually settled, perhaps too tired and hungry to wiggle any longer. By the time Dasaf reached the alcazar, it had fallen asleep in the folds of his robes.

            A servant came to take Dasaf’s horse before he entered the alcazar. He spotted a familiar figure standing by a window, whispering to another servant girl. Both were giggling and speaking in a hushed tone that implied secrecy. The other servant girl saw him first and quickly straightened. Fasa turned, then followed, though her bow was awkward and haphazard.

            “Sumas,” both women said at once.

            “I would like to speak to Fasa privately.”

            The women exchanged a look before the other servant drifted away. Fasa finally noticed the puppy clutched at Dasaf’s hip, and an adoring smile crossed her face.

            “How _precious_!” she remarked as Dasaf handed it to her. The puppy seemed more cautious now, merely sniffing at Fasa’s neck when she cradled the mutt in her arms. “Is it yours?”

            “No. I would like you to give her to Asan.”

            Fasa’s brow furrowed as she braced the dog against her shoulder. “Can’t you do that, Sumas?”

            “I think he would prefer it come from you. Tell him you found her running about the stables.”      

            Her confusion didn’t dim. “I can give her to him, but I don’t see why I should lie. Asan will love her.”

            “I shouldn’t have to explain my reasons.” Dasaf reached out to run a hand down the stripe on the puppy’s nose. “Please just do this for me.”

            “Of course, Sumas.”  

            “Thank you.”  
            “Will you return to the festival?”

            “I’ve been feeling rather ill. I think I will take to my bed early.” He nodded at her. “Thank you, Fasa. Have a good night.”

            “Yes, thank you.” Her voice trailed off as Dasaf darted around her and down the hall. She’d definitely think him odd, but he’d suffered worse than the judgment of a servant. Leyla would be looking for him at the festival, but now that Dasaf had enjoyed some solitude and silence, it would be painful to return to the light and laughter. It was too much; it overwhelmed him. Sometimes even the happiest crowds reminded him of the crashing bloody bodies of soldiers. The boys riding their donkeys back and forth made the staccato rhythm of galloping horses, and some peeling laughter only brought to mind the shrill cries of pain. It was a world he’d once enjoyed, now with the glamor peeled away to reveal some horrible macabre imitation beneath. Dasaf knew he only had to give himself time. Memories had to fade, right? In a few weeks he’d return to normal, and he could attend all the festivals his people wanted.

            For now, he just needed to sleep and forget.

 

* * *

 

            Asan had drank a bit too much wine, but luckily Nutmeg knew her way back to the alcazar. Raheed had vanished an hour ago, and Asan assumed it had something to do with the gooey eyes he’d been making at Leyla. Asan was happy for him, but at the same time he’d prefer not to see it.

            The moon had risen to the pinnacle of the sky by the time Asan dismounted from Nutmeg and tied her with the other camels. Here she would have all the hay and water she liked, a substantial reward for an incredible camel. Asan was just inebriated enough to blow her a kiss before wobbling his way back into the alcazar. By the time he’d found his room, some of the wine had worn off, but not enough to relieve his exhaustion. He drifted into sleep and was woken only minutes later by something wet on his cheek. Jolting upwards, he grasped blindly through the dark until his hand struck something furry. Someone with a lamp entered the room, and Asan spun onto his back to face her.

            “Hello,” Fasa greeted, grinning. She came closer, shedding some of her lamplight on Asan’s other guest—a fuzzy light brown puppy with a stubby tail and a short snout that made its smile about as big as Asan’s excitement upon seeing it.

            “Where you find?” Asan blurted, gathering the dog into his arms and pressing his cheek against the top of its wiggling head. “Yours?”

            “No, it’s yours.” Fasa looked upon them both with a smile of approval. “Dasaf wanted you to have her.”

            Asan’s glee faltered for a moment. “Dasaf?”  
            “He wanted me to say I found her, but I don’t like lying to my friends, especially if I don’t know why.”

            It was difficult to hold the squirrely puppy without proper use of his hands, so Asan let the dog go so that it could sniff around him. “Why Dasaf give me dog?”

            “You lost Messenger. Perhaps you need a new messenger dog.”

            “But where he find?”  
            Fasa shrugged. “It looks like a scruffy mutt to me.”

            The puppy sat back on her haunches and yipped. A grin stretched across Asan’s face before he leaned over to kiss her nose. She licked him as he pulled away. “Beautiful,” he said. “Thank you, Fasa.”

            “Hey, I didn’t find her for you. Maybe you should thank Dasaf. Anyway, I went ahead and fed her, so she should be fine until morning.”

            Asan nodded. After kissing the puppy one last time, Fasa waved and left. Pulling the puppy into his lap, Asan tried to think of what he should do. Why would Dasaf not bring the puppy straight to him? Why go through Fasa? They hadn’t spoken since their angry encounter, so Asan wondered if what he’d said to Dasaf then was the cause of Dasaf’s strange behavior. Surely he knew that Asan said whatever would hurt him, not exactly what was true? Raheed had already told Asan about Dasaf’s attempt to promote him to head advisor, so clearly Dasaf had seen the error of his ways. There was still a small sliver of resentment over how Dasaf had treated Raheed, and of course if fate hadn’t been so kind, Dasaf might have gone through with Raheed’s execution. But everything had changed so quickly. Asan didn’t even know how he felt. He’d been so scared for his life and the lives of others that his complicated emotional issues hadn’t even arisen.

            Maybe he should talk to Dasaf. It was the only way to improve matters.

            Picking the puppy up into his arms, Asan left the room, still feeling a bit tingly from the wine. Many were either still at the festival or asleep. Asan wondered if Dasaf had even returned home. Perhaps he was still out in the city enjoying the festivities.    

            There was a guard blocking the door to the Darim family’s bedchambers, and Asan knew he wouldn’t be able to pass without the approval of some higher authority. Just before he gave up in frustration, he spotted Raheed at the opposite end of the hall, drinking out of a wine bottle and grinning like a lunatic. Leyla was with him, looking rather smug herself. They hailed Asan with a wave.

            “Raheed, I need help.”

            “Oh, hello Asan. That wine has made your face all red—”

            “What an adorable puppy!” Leyla exclaimed, reaching down to stroke the dog’s chin. “Where did you get this?”

            “I find,” Asan lied.    

            “Asan’s the king of the jungle,” Raheed told Leyla. “He’s an animal charmer.”

            “Just keep it away from Altaf or he’ll want a dog _and_ a monkey.”

            Asan was impatient, so he broached his next topic with little grace. “Can you get me in Dasaf bedchambers?”

            Raheed lifted his eyebrows, and whatever blush that wine had brought to Asan’s cheeks intensified twofold.     

            “Only to talk!” Asan clarified.

            “ _Riiiiight_. Sounds reasonable.”

            Asan jabbed his elbow into Raheed’s side in protest. “Raheed!” He glanced at Leyla sheepishly. “Uh . . .”

            “I’m going to _pretend_ I don’t understand what either of you are talking about,” she said with a stern look and a brief wink at Asan. He brightened. “I haven’t seen Dasaf all night. Are you sure he went to bed?”  
            “I want to check.”

            Leyla nodded. “Very well.”

            She went to the guard and was immediately granted entrance. Raheed and Asan followed her into the hallway, which was dark save one lamp over Dasaf’s doorway.

            “How odd,” Leyla said. “He’s always the _last_ one back from a party.”

            “Battle’s exhausting,” Raheed replied.

            “It’s been two weeks.”         

            There was a hint of sobriety in Raheed’s expression. “It’s an exhaustion that lasts much longer than most.”

            “Well, Asan, there you are.” She gestured to the door, then turned to Raheed. “As for _you_ , don’t you have your own bedchamber to stumble away to?”

            “It’s so far. I thought I’d just stay a while.”

            Leyla rolled her eyes and pushed his shoulder. “Go on, you cad, or I’ll sic my mother on you.”

            Asan made a face and quickly slipped through Dasaf’s door, not sure how much flirting he could handle. He rather hoped he never acted so silly with Dasaf, but all of their interaction was much more secretive.

            Dasaf’s bedchamber was dark except for the moonlight. Judging by the patterns it left on Dasaf’s bed, he was not inside. He must have gone to the alcove outside, which had been partially returned to its formal glory. There were a few lamps burning low in the garden, and when Asan stepped along the stone walkway, he spotted a form wrapped beneath several blankets on the alcove bed. Asan bent and released the puppy, which bounded around the garden for a moment before relieving herself on a patch of flowers. Asan swallowed a laugh and crept closer.

            Movement beneath the blankets made Asan jump, but Dasaf had not woken. When Asan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that Dasaf was twitching, his lips forming Hahnar words that Asan could not read. His brow was so furrowed that his eyebrows nearly connected, and tension pulled his lips into a grimace. One hand fought with the blankets that quickly became entangled in his limbs. Asan was so afraid that Dasaf might strangle himself with them that he rushed forward and touched Dasaf’s arm, wrenching him from the dream.

            In a flash of movement, Dasaf’s hand was on Asan’s throat, throwing him back against the alcove wall. Asan was so shocked that for a moment he didn’t even feel the pain. By the time it arrived, Dasaf woke properly and fell away, yanking his hand from Asan’s neck. Asan slumped and took in several deep breaths, his lungs aching. There were still twinges in his back and sides from his fall on the roof during the battle.

            Dasaf’s whole frame heaved with breath as one trembling hand covered his face. Asan found an ewer and empty glass on a sill nearby, so he fumbled to pour some water. It was not easy with his fingers, but he had created a technique for such tasks by now. When Dasaf pulled his hand away from his face, Asan offered him water. For a moment it looked as if Dasaf might slap the cup from Asan’s hand, but instead he withdrew further into the alcove, putting more space between them.

            “Don’t,” Dasaf said.  

            “Drink,” Asan ordered.

            Dasaf glared at him before finally reaching out and taking the cup Asan offered. Asan’s broken fingers were thankful of it. After downing a swig of water, Dasaf returned his attention to Asan.

            “If I’d had a sword, I could have killed you,” Dasaf muttered.

            “Not sleep with swords,” Asan replied. “Dangerous.”

            “These days I should.” Dasaf rubbed his face again. Asan had expected some excitement from Dasaf, not the total opposite. Asan knew their last interaction had not been pleasant, but so much had happened between that time and now. Dasaf was willing to make Raheed and advisor now, so the wrongs had been righted. All Asan wanted was an apology and an acknowledgment that Asan was right. Perhaps if Asan were feeling particularly cruel, he’d ask Dasaf to call him “ _Your Highness_ ” for a day. The Dasaf he’d known before would have laughed and agreed, but this Dasaf resembled a frightened animal more than he did the smiling, charming man he’d been before.

            “Why are you here?” Dasaf asked angrily, pushing himself to the edge of the bed and standing.                

            “Thank for dog,” Asan replied.

            “But—” Dasaf turned to face Asan, frowning. “I told Fasa not to tell you.”       

            “Fasa not listen to you.”

            “Clearly. Apparently my authority as Sumas means nothing to _anyone_ anymore. How did you get in here?”

            “No matter.” Asan scooted to the edge of the bed, frowning. “Why you avoid me? Why _you_ not give me dog?”  
            “I didn’t want to turn it into a production.”

            Asan pursed his lips, finding his temper flaring. “What this?”

            “I didn’t want to make it seem as if I were trying to make up for what I’d done before. It’s not about redeeming myself; I just thought you’d appreciate a dog after losing your other one.”

            “No need lies.”

            “It wasn’t a lie. It was . . .” Dasaf trailed off and glanced at Asan. “Okay, it was a lie. I thought it a harmless one.”

            “You avoid me. Why?”  
            “I’m avoiding everyone at the moment.”

            Asan stood, planting himself in front of Dasaf as he started to pace. After several near death experiences, Asan had no patience for any of this. If he could tell Raheed he loved him, surely Dasaf could follow his lead and be honest.            

            “No. You avoid _me_. No avoid Raheed, and you no _like_ Raheed!”  
            “I feel a bit more ambiguous about him these days.” When Dasaf saw Asan’s expression, he sighed. “Have you so quickly forgotten what happened between us before?”  
            “Much happen since then.”

            “Yes, but it doesn’t change _anything_. If I had killed Raheed, I imagine you wouldn’t be here looking for my attention. It was only by luck that I didn’t—and Leyla’s intuition. Nothing has changed about me since then except that now I have better information and proof that Raheed’s truly loyal to the Khamal cause. If I hadn’t seen the proof, I’d still call him _Mulli_ and assume him a liar. You were so quick to hate me then—so what happened to that? Do you feel differently now? What if you loved one of those hundred men I had butchered? Do you care about them?”

            Asan wasn’t sure how to respond, and he was always careful with his words because he knew he was a terrible speaker. He’d be much more eloquent with his hands. “Mullis cut off my ear,” he finally said.

            “ _Some_ Mullis cut off your ear. You don’t know what those men were like. They could have all been Raheed, and the only difference is that you didn’t know them.”

            “Mullis invade your city! Raheed never invade anything.”

            “Of course he has! He just hasn’t invaded _Khamal_.”

            “Okay, so? Raheed bad, Dasaf bad. Everybody bad. Congra—congratu . . .” Asan’s tongue struggled with the word, and he decided it was much harder to pronounce than it was to read when spoken. He gave up on it. “World terrible. People terrible. We chose friends. I chose Raheed, I protect Raheed. Raheed safe, and now it everything is different.”

            “I’m glad it’s so simple for _you_ ,” Dasaf snapped. “Kill enough people and life stops looking so simple. I used to think it was just us and everyone else who stood against us, but recently I’ve realized we all die in the same horrid ways. The fact is, I nearly killed Raheed, and that is not the sort of man you should want anything to do with.”

            Asan had seen this before—the withdrawal, the self-pity, the anger. Asan hadn’t been able to fix it in Raheed, and now Asan felt helpless to fix it in Dasaf. Would he have to watch Dasaf spiral deeper and deeper until he couldn’t fall asleep without wine and whores? How many times had Asan helped Raheed to bed because Raheed was so inebriated he couldn’t even walk? Only the threat of Asan’s stoning had seemed to pull Raheed out of his self-destruction, so would it take something equally as terrible to bring Dasaf back?

            Either way, Asan knew that arguing wasn’t going to fix anything. Neither were naïve offers of love and acceptance. Only Dasaf could help himself now—if he even wanted to.

            “I ordered nearly a hundred men beheaded after the battle,” Dasaf said. “I watched nearly half of them die, and as each of their heads fell, I knew I had put them there. Does that inspire your forgiveness, Asan? Are things still _different_?”

            Dasaf wasn’t asking for an answer, not one Asan could provide. He already _had_ his answer; he just wanted Asan’s confirmation.

            “I not forgive until you do,” Asan told him. “Until then, I go.”

            With one more pointed look in Dasaf’s direction, Asan bent down and gathered his puppy in his arms.

            “Thank you for dog,” he said before turning his back and heading out of Dasaf’s bedchambers. Dasaf did not try to stop him.

 

* * *

 

            Malika was giving instructions on how workmen might repair a fountain when she heard yipping in the nearby courtyard. After she excused herself, she followed the sound until she found Altaf seated on the pathway, wrestling with a wriggling puppy while the _faskii_ servant Dasaf so admired sat nearby flipping through a book Leyla had most likely given him. It was a peaceful, domestic scene, one she was not eager to interrupt. Unfortunately, the puppy barked at her, drawing Altaf’s attention to her.

            “Mother!” He scrambled to his feet and bowed slightly. “I was just . . . playing.”

            “I see. Where is that monkey of yours?”

            Altaf shrugged. “I haven’t seen him. I think the Mullis might have eaten him.”

            “Oh hush, you don’t know that.” Malika bent down to accept the puppy’s slobbery greeting. By now, the _faskii_ servant had noticed her as well and jumped to his feet, clapping his book shut. When Malika stepped into the courtyard, he bowed low.

            “Leyla explained to me why your fingers were broken and your ear cut off,” Malika told him in Hahnar. Altaf translated when the servant’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “The Mullis wanted information from  you, did they not?”

            “They wanted information from Raheed and tortured Asan to get it,” Altaf said after Asan slurred his way through something her rudimentary Aillic skills could not comprehend.

            “You could have told them though, couldn’t you have?”

            Asan bent his head and nodded.

            “But you told them nothing, even when you knew about a secret entrance into the alcazar.” Malika stepped closer. “Show me your hands.”

            Asan extended them. Leyla’s work was clean and well-kept, so Malika hoped he might make a full recovery. She had seen Asan speak with his hands, so it must be particularly devastating not to have full use of them.

            “You have been very brave, and very loyal. We in Khamal are indebted to you. Weaker men might have cracked under such pressure. If there is anything myself or anyone else can do for you, let us know.”

            A touch of pink colored Asan’s cheeks, but he nodded, obviously pleased.

            “Now I must ask that I have a private moment with my son.”

            Asan made haste in evacuating the courtyard, his puppy bounding after him. Malika drew Altaf to a bench and sat him down.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “Alright. Still a bit tingly and dizzy at times, but Aunt Leyla says it will pass.”

            “That is good.” Malika reached out and straightened a wrinkle in the sleeve of Altaf’s caftan. “I try not to worry, but I suppose I’m a mother first and a Suman second.”

            “Mother, I have a question about the Matij.”

            “What would that be?”

            “About Kalila.” Altaf’s eyes flickered away, slightly embarrassed. “Am I no longer betrothed to her?”

            “I imagine not. She is the daughter of a traitor, after all.”

            “Oh.”

            “I suppose we’ll have to look for someone else. I will have to ask my mother and Shuman Rabida; they will know of more suitable girls.” She paused, glancing down at the hands Altaf had folded between his thighs. “You wanted to marry Kalila then?”

            “I don’t much care about _marrying_ her, but . . . she did ask her father to help us, even when he pretended he had no interest in doing so. I’m sure she had no plans in any betrayal, and you did not see the wretched way she was treated. I had thought that maybe by marrying her, I could get her away from that terrible family.”

            Oh, this son of hers. Whenever she worried he might become his father, he proved otherwise. Yet as much as Malika appreciated her son’s empathy, she knew that Khamal did not need a gentle ruler or even a compassionate one. Men who could not stand against the battering ram crumpled under its assault, and Malika feared that Altaf was _too_ soft, _too_ kind-hearted. The Khamal throne was for scorpions, not lambs. For a while she had blamed Dasaf for Altaf’s nature, as Dasaf had never had the iron and grit of his older brother. But how could she lament that Altaf was not more like Haadi? Haadi had been miserable, and thought that the only cure was by spreading it to those he lived with. Was there not some sort of compromise? Could Malika not have a strong son as well as a kind son?

            “You can’t save everyone. Besides, perhaps Kalila does not want to be saved. Perhaps she feels safer with people that she knows.”

            “Safer with people who tear her down at every opportunity?”

            “If a woman knows no different, who is she to wish for a better place?”

            This answer did not satisfy him, and Malika hated to deny him his childish optimism.

            “Maybe,” Malika began, “we can ask the Council.”

            “Really?”

            “Perhaps Kalila will be the price they pay for sabotage. She will not so much be a connection between allies but reparations for a crime.”

            “She might not like that.”

            “Altaf, no matter what you do, _she_ will not have a choice about what happens in her life. She will either marry you or another crony of Jakil Nhasi. She may like that man or she may not, but I suppose it doesn’t matter to the Matij either way.”

            “So how can I know what is the right thing to do?”

            Malika put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s not always an answer, but as Sumas, _your_ answer will be the final one.”  
            There was a long silence as Altaf considered this. The knowledge didn’t appear to comfort him.

            “I would like to marry Kalila, if my only options are other strange girls. At least Kalila is a girl who has proven her loyalty.”

            Malika nodded, then stood, offering Altaf her hand. “Then we shall bring it to the Council.”

 

* * *

 

            During Nutmeg’s wanderings, no one had robbed anything from her cargo, so Asan was able to retrieve the drawing supplies Dasaf had gotten him. He had forgotten about the pathetic state of his hands, however, so all he could really manage were a few squiggly lines before he gave up. Instead he flipped through what he had drawn before, struck by how often Dasaf appeared. Raheed had once dominated his sketches, and while Raheed was still peppered throughout, Dasaf was the main subject of Asan’s studies. Asan was particularly drawn to a rendering of Dasaf lounging across the alcove, shirtless and smiling. It had come from Asan’s imagination—Dasaf had never officially modeled for him—but it hurt Asan’s heart to look at. It was like looking a stranger, a man he had known in a happier time. Dasaf’s strange bare face was so cold now, and yet Asan cared for him just as much now as he ever had before.

            _Stupid Dasaf_ , he thought, snapping the book shut in frustration. _Stupid Asan_. Perhaps it was time to move on. Khamal was not nearly so large as Ayllamal, and he imagined there would be very few whores as becoming as Samid, but maybe there was someone out in the city like him. Shallaf had found Dasaf, so what kept someone else from finding Asan? Asan’s ignorance of the language was one. Another was his inability to communicate very well. And he was _faskii_ , which meant an even smaller pool of more open-minded Hahnars to choose from.

            It really seemed hopeless. And when Asan thought about it, he knew he didn’t want anyone else. He wanted Dasaf.

            His door opened, and Leyla’s head peeked inside. She was grinning, but that was nothing new lately. Asan knew how she felt; if Raheed had ever shown him the attention he poured on Leyla, Asan would never stop grinning either.

            “Asan, can you come with me? I need your assistance with tea.”

            “Tea?”  
            “Come,” Leyla said.

            Asan stood and followed her. In the kitchens, Asan helped her find a tray to place the various items Leyla plunked down, then showed her where to heat the water. As it steamed in the kettle, Asan looked over what spices she had chosen. He was a bit shocked to find both a jar of honey as well as a small glass pitcher of milk.

            “Leyla . . .?”

            Leyla poured some of the hot water from the kettle into a pot. “Follow me.”

            All items in hand, Leyla led the way through the alcazar, a confused Asan trailing behind her. Finally she arrived Raheed’s door. Asan knew it because he had visited several times, and Raheed had claimed it after accepting the role as head advisor. It was not a glamorous room, but Raheed said it was more than enough, and he’d already made it his own, mostly by tossing his clothing everywhere. Asan resisted the urge to clean up after him, as Raheed was no longer his superior.

            “Oh Asan, you’ve brought my tea just as I like it: with a beautiful woman on the side,” Raheed said from his bed, where he was seated reading a book. He was trying to teach himself Hahnar, and Asan knew he was already far ahead of Asan. Asan couldn’t help but note the robe he had hastily tied around his waist, revealing a slip of skin in the center of his chest. After Dasaf’s rejection, Asan felt himself slip into his old adoration of Raheed, and seeing him so sloppily put together yet intensely handsome made it difficult for Asan to move on.

            “Oh, shut up,” Leyla replied with a smile. “I helped make the tea.”

            “I’ve tasted the concoctions you’ve made, Leyla, and I want no part.”

            “Next time I save you from imminent death, I’ll pay more attention to how it tastes than how it works, how would you like that?” She settled beside him, and Asan watched her eyes flicker to Raheed’s chest too. It was a relief to know that it wasn’t just Asan.

            Asan gave Leyla the tray of tea, and she set it beside Raheed. She watched him with attentative eyes. He gave her a suspicious look, but he brought the cup to his lips and sniffed it.

            “Doesn’t _smell_ like poison,” he muttered. “Though perhaps you should taste it first, just to make sure.” He held it toward Leyla.

            She giggled and pushed him away. “I wasn’t sure how you liked your tea, so I brought everything. Mint, lemon, cinnamon, honey, _milk_.” At this, she glanced at Asan, and he snorted.

            Not oblivious to the exchange, Raheed paused in bringing the tea to his lips. “What?”

            “Oh, nothing.”

            Raheed dropped the cup back to his lap. “What is it? It _is_ poison, isn’t it? Perhaps something that will turn me into a donkey for a day?” He faced Leyla in hopes of an explanation, but she just clamped her lips shut and shrugged.

            “Alright, Asan, what is it? What are you two giggling about?”

            _Honey and milk are symbolic_ , Asan told Raheed.

Raheed placed the cup on his tray so he could reply silently. _Symbolic of what_?

            _Honey and milk served together are a proposal for marriage_.

            Raheed’s face was instantly swept blank. When expression returned, it was doubtful.

            “Is he telling the truth?” Raheed asked Leyla.

            “I don’t know. I don’t speak Asan.”

            “He said honey and milk are a . . . .” Upon seeing the glee in Leyla’s eyes, he tossed the book off his lap so quickly that its impact against the wall nearly tore the pages from its binding. If the situation were different, Asan might have chided him. Instead, he cleared his throat when Raheed grabbed Leyla by both her shoulders and kissed her so hard she nearly fell over. With an arm around her neck, he twisted her around and back so that she was practically in his lap, but there were clearly no protests from her.

            “ _You_ ,” Raheed said, pulling away. “ _You_ magnificent, beautiful woman. I wouldn’t just marry you once, I’d marry you a thousand times over. And I fucking hate weddings, so that’s saying something.”

            “You never go to wedding,” Asan told him with a roll of his eyes.

            Raheed looked up at Asan, as if he’d forgotten he was here. “Well, _no_ , but I imagine they’re terrible.” When Leyla reached up to pluck at a curl, his attention returned to her. “It’s probably different when you’re the groom.”

            Then they were kissing again, and Asan decided it was time to leave. He slipped out without notice, filled with a mixture of emotions he couldn’t hope to sort out. He was ecstatic for Raheed, of course. All he’d ever wanted was Raheed’s happiness. Yet a selfish part of Asan had wanted that happiness to be _his_. For years, they had been the only one for the other. Raheed had his whores, but Asan had always known that Raheed would come home to him every night. It would be Asan who would guide him into bed, help him shave, unbuckle his armor, listen to his raunchy jokes and laugh. It had not been a marriage or even a romance, but it had been love, and Asan had thought it was all he’d ever need. But he had seen the passion in Raheed’s eyes when accepting Leyla’s proposal, and Asan knew that what he’d had with Raheed had never come close.

            With a shaky sigh, Asan returned to his room, where drawings of things he would never own would always wait.


	40. Promises

 

            “Absolutely not.”

            Leyla frowned. “Why am I not surprised?”

            “Are you mad? My God, Leyla, you must be out of your _mind_ —”

            “ _You_ promoted him to head advisor!”

            Dasaf jerked at the knot tying his cinch to his horse’s saddle. Leyla had cornered him in the horse stall after a hard ride, perhaps hoping he’d be too exhausted to be appalled by what she’d told him. What exhaustion he suffered from only made him less patient. “What I did was a military matter. The man has a history of it, he’s highly skilled in the discipline, and he proved himself ten times over in battle. This is another matter entirely, so don’t compare them.”

            “Another _matter?_ I don’t see how. You promoted Raheed for his loyalty and cunning above all, and _that_ is why I asked him to marry me.”

            “You asked him to marry you because you are silly with love and he’s so utterly handsome that you can’t contain yourself.” Dasaf grunted as he yanked at the knot again, making his horse grunt with discomfort. The knot did come free, and the cinch fell to the other side of the horse. “Let’s not confuse it with anything else.”

            Leyla bristled with anger. “I am a full-grown woman and I am in full possession of my wits _and_ my reason. Unlike _you_ , I’m afraid. Who was it that nearly murdered Raheed in a fit of rage? And yet _I’m_ the emotional one?”

            Dasaf grabbed the pommel of the saddle and dragged it off his horse’s back. “Raheed has his charms, that’s all I’m saying.”

            “His charms are that he is a decent and honorable man.”

            “I don’t think he has _honor_ in mind when it comes to you.”       

            “You are such a _man_ , my God,” Leyla snapped, rubbing furiously at a temple with her hand. “You think so little of any man who is not _you_.”

            “That’s because I know men better than you do.”

            “Raheed has not—ugh. I’m not going to discuss what honor Raheed has in mind, because I am talking about marriage, and I think it is an honorable goal.”  
            “He is Mulli.”

            “He is _bhanak_ , not Mulli.”

            “ _Faskii_ still. If you were to marry him, your children would be . . .” Dasaf rolled his tongue against his cheek, then decided to say it anyway, “mixed.”

            “You sound like my mother.”

            “Have you told your mother?”

            “I thought it’d be best to tell you first, but clearly that was a terrible idea.”

            “It’s not that I have anything against mixed children when it’s between commoners. But the Jhana line—”

            “I don’t care about bloodlines or silly rules of nobility. It is not unusual for those of high status to wed those of lower status occasionally. My aunt married a commoner.”

            “He wasn’t _faskii_.”

            “I never thought you had such prejudices against mixed children.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I also think you are a terrible hypocrite.”

            “How so?”

            “You and Asan,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

            “What do you know about that?”

            “Oh, _please_. If I have to see you stare at him like a lost child one more t—”

            “I’m not going to marry Asan and have children with him, am I? It’s an entirely different matter.”

            “So flirting and kissing Raheed is fine, but going the honorable route and marrying him somehow isn’t?”

            Dasaf grabbed the saddle blanket and dumped that on top of the saddle. He marched across the stall and grabbed a curry brush from the basket. With strokes perhaps a bit too rough, he began to brush the sweat marks from his horse’s back. “You know your mother and Malika will never approve of it.”

            “Good thing they are not Sumas.”

            “I’d prefer you not drag me into this. You know I would not forbid you to marry anyone, but I also don’t want your mother to put snakes in my bed.”

            “I can handle my mother and Malika. What I need from you is _support_. You are Sumas, and what you say is law, at least in trivial matters like this. Raheed is your head advisor and I am your sister-in-law. If Raheed were Khamal Hahnar, there would be no scandal. _None_.”

            “Yes, if he were Khamal Hahnar.”

            “So you only object because of the shade of his skin.”

            “Because he _killed Hahnars_ , Leyla. Because he does not know what marriage entails since he was never raised to believe it a possibility. Because he’s been with a million whores and they’ve probably given him diseases. Because he has no family, no history, no origins. There are reasons beyond the shade of his skin. But yes, that is a factor as well.”

            “So you’d rather I marry you?”

            “When did I suggest such a thing?”

            “You know my mother has wanted such an arrangement for years. Your grandmother wants it too. I don’t want any other man, but before Raheed I did consider you, just to shut everyone else up. We have always been friends, and it would be an adequate marriage. So is that what you want?”

            Dasaf sighed heavily. This marriage business had never been his forte. He had always avoided the topic, because it always came around to one question: why hadn’t he married yet? The whole Darim line depended on him! He needed an heir! If he did not marry, he would be a disappointment to all! He had heard it all, most of it from Shallaf and his grandmother. The thought of marrying Leyla had been tolerable at best. After what he’d seen with his parents, with Haadi, he saw no reason to pursue such a prison. It only bred misery and caught innocent children in the middle.

            “What I want,” Dasaf said to the sweaty back of his horse, “is for you to be happy.”

            Leyla’s tone softened, as if she sensed a breakthrough. “Then why won’t you let me do this?”

            Dasaf turned to her at last, knowing that doing so would doom him. She had such beautiful eyes, and they looked particularly pathetic stretched so wide.

            “Because I care about you and I want to protect you.”

            “I don’t need your protection. I need you to support me. I need you to _believe_ me when I tell you that this isn’t some silly little romance. I’m twenty-seven years old; I know what I want. This man helped save Khamal. He has been more of a gentleman than the majority of Hahnar men I know, and when I look at him I know in the deepest, darkest parts of me that there is no one I could ever want more.”

            Damn her. Dasaf wiped the sweat off his brow with a dirty forearm before facing her again. She reached out and brushed the smudge it had left with a cool, soft hand. She reminded him of his mother when she did this, and perhaps that was why he’d always felt so close to Leyla. She had been the one person who kept the laughter alive in his life.

            “Fine,” Dasaf grumbled, pulling away. “Marry the Mulli.”

            Leyla laid her hand on Dasaf’s horse’s nose, stroking it slowly. “Thank you, Dasaf.”

            He bent to pick up his saddle, then slumped. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried his best self-deprecating smile. “You knew I’d give in.”

            “I did.”

            “But if he ever hurts you, let him know that I’ll cut off his balls and make a necklace out of them for him to wear.”

            “I’m sure Raheed already knows that.”

            Dropping the saddle, Dasaf stood and went to Leyla, pressing a firm kiss to the top of her head. He grasped the back of her neck as he leaned down to catch her gaze. “May God be with you, sister.”

            She embraced him quickly, then pulled back with a smile. “I want you to be happy too, Dasaf. Please know that. You deserve it.”

            Dasaf wished he could believe that.

 

* * *

 

            Asan dreamed that he was standing in the empty desert, the sun torrefying the skin along his scalp and shoulders. The dunes around him slowly undulated, like sluggish waves rolling along the beach. When he walked forward, the sand beneath him shifted so quickly that his knees wobbled and collapsed. Yet he did not strike the earth but in fact slipped through the sand, as if falling into an empty grave. He scrambled to grasp something, but it was like grabbing at air. His descent was quick, and when he opened his eyes, he was lying naked in a dark room with no windows. When he reached out a hand to feel his way forward, he felt something scuttle over it. He jumped backward, but more legs tickled his thighs and lower back. When he looked down, he saw scarabs running over his skin like glittering black jewels. He tried to push them off, but with each one he removed, two more crawled forward, and soon he was suffocating under their weight. He clamped his eyes shut, and when he opened them, the scarabs were gone. Now he was in a much brighter room with windows fashioned in the shape of scorpions. The sunlight through them created patterns on the floor and across his bare feet. When he went to the window, he saw a figure standing just outside, wearing only trousers and a sword, staring in the opposite direction. Asan knew who he was, but it was hopeless to reach him. Asan called to him, but Dasaf never turned. It was as if Asan’s cries were as silent to Dasaf as they were to Asan.

            When Asan woke, the room was dark save a lamp that burned in the tiny courtyard beyond Asan’s window. His puppy had left the sanctuary of his curled legs and trotted over to a dark figure that had just entered the room. Surely Asan was still dreaming. He picked up the quill he had discarded and pointed the sharp end at the intruder. When the figure crouched and slipped into the light, Asan dropped the quill and reached for a match to light the oil lamp by his bed. When it flared to life, it threw orange highlights over Dasaf’s distressed features.

            Asan sat up, wary. Dasaf’s eyes were bloodshot, his skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. A light sheen of sweat made his skin glimmer, and it seemed as if his cloak had been hastily donned. Asan was so used to seeing Dasaf proud and authoritative that he had to pinch himself to make sure he still wasn’t dreaming.  

            “I couldn’t sleep,” Dasaf said, licking his lips nervously. “I—I don’t know why I came.”

            “Look tired,” Asan replied gently.

            Dasaf rubbed at his eyes with a hand, lips flattened. “I don’t know why I’m forced to relive it over and over again. As if once were not enough. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t understand why I felt no fear during the battle but now that’s _all_ I feel.”

            “Fear comes later.”

            “But how do I get rid of it?” Dasaf slouched forward, dropping to his knees at the foot of Asan’s sleeping mat. “Oh Asan, I am so lost.”

            Asan took a moment to consider his next move, but slowly he pulled his legs from underneath his blanket and slid closer to Dasaf, reaching out a hand to touch the cloak, which had not been draped properly and fell away from Dasaf’s shoulders under Asan’s fingers.

            “My camel lost,” Asan told him. “But I find.”

            Dasaf stared at him as if Asan had said something utterly mad. Perhaps Asan should not have compared a traumatized Dasaf to Nutmeg, but Asan couldn’t think of anything else to say. When he opened his mouth to correct himself, Dasaf’s lips on his quickly swallowed his words.

            Inhaling sharply, it took Asan a moment to regain his bearings. Dasaf’s desperation was palpable in his kiss, and Asan nearly fell over under the onslaught. When his limbs caught up with his mind, he slid his arms around Dasaf’s neck and pushed against him with at least half of his body. One of Dasaf’s hands flattened against the small of Asan’s back and pulled him closer until heir chests were flush with one another. Asan began to remember what it was like to be the object of Dasaf’s desire, and he wondered how he’d ever forgotten. Sometimes he lost track of his own mouth, and he’d pause to suck in air only to have Dasaf steal it away. Asan wanted to do a million things to this man, yet he had trouble thinking of a single specific one. He didn’t care what they did, as long as Dasaf’s lips stayed warm and on his.

            Their position was not sustainable, so Asan fell backward, bringing Dasaf with him. Dasaf sat with a thigh on either side of Asan’s hips, moving his attention lower, over Asan’s chin, down the underside of his jaw, and then in a slow descent along his neck. Meanwhile, his hands grappled with what Asan wore, pushing the thin material higher until Asan was naked from the stomach up. Asan would have liked to show Dasaf the same treatment, but his hands were not so deft, and even clutching a shoulder blade sent needles of pain up Asan’s arms. Luckily Dasaf seemed to understand and pulled his robe off as well, leaving him perfectly nude. Asan sucked in a deep breath at the sight, and he knew his sketches would never be a substitute for the real thing. Oh, he was beautiful. Dasaf could end their grappling now and Asan might not mind, as long as he was allowed to stare for a little while longer.

            “You’ve lost weight,” Dasaf said, running his hands along Asan’s abdomen. “Fucking Mullis.” Dasaf bent down and gently sucked Asan’s bottom lip into his mouth. When he pulled away, he bent his head and ran his forehead along Asan’s cheek, much like an affectionate cat. “I wanted to kill everyone in that tent when I saw what they’d done to you.”

            Asan kept silent, afraid of breaking the beautiful moment.

            Dasaf’s expression was anxious when he met Asan’s gaze. “What you said about Raheed . . . the night you left . . .”

            Asan still had use of this thumbs, so he used both to trace the bags beneath Dasaf’s eyes.

            “I love Raheed,” Asan told him, and Dasaf flinched. Asan pulled him forward so he could place a kiss on Dasaf’s mouth. “But Raheed love not real. I love you. I want you. I want _this_ , Dasaf, always.”

            Dasaf must not have needed to know more, because he surged forward and captured Asan’s lips again. Asan pulled away first, scooting from underneath Dasaf and pulling off his caftan completely. A few months ago he might have been more timid, but he had almost died at least several times, and with a renewed appreciation for life, Asan decided he had no time to be unclear about what he wanted. So after undressing, he reached over to his bedside and grabbed a jar of cream Leyla had given him for his ear wound. It was an oily substance that smelled lightly of jasmine, and Asan believed it would do.

            “Asan, what—”

            Asan pressed a thumb to Dasaf’s lips. “Quiet. I show you.”

            Dasaf nodded, kissing Asan’s thumb before Asan drew it away. With a hand on each of Dasaf’s shoulders, Asan guided him down to a seated position on the floor, then climbed into his lap. He tried to remember exactly how Dasaf had done this before, but he hadn’t been able to see much. Either way, he knew Dasaf had used his fingers, and Asan’s dexterity with those was questionable.

            “Need help,” Asan told Dasaf. He grabbed Dasaf’s wrist and drew it toward the jar of cream.

            “For . . .” Dasaf’s brow wrinkled. “Is this for you?”

            “Try different way now.”

            For a moment it looked as if Dasaf might protest—Asan wasn’t sure why he’d ever want to—but then he nodded and wrapped an arm around Asan’s waist, pulling him higher up onto his knees. Asan busied himself with tugging at Dasaf’s ear with his teeth until Dasaf’s fingers breached him, cool and wet. It stung a bit, but Asan was so used to pain by now that it barely registered. He dug his face into Dasaf’s neck and inhaled his scent, hoping he wasn’t moaning too loudly. Finally Dasaf pulled away and took Asan’s hips in both his hands, guiding Asan down until he was flush with Dasaf’s lap.

            Asan’s hips jerked forward on their own, searching for the brief flickerings of pleasure that pooled in the base of his spine. After finding a rhythm that fed the fire in his stomach, he shoved Dasaf into a horizontal position, then bent down to grab his bottom lip between his teeth. Dasaf took a fistful of Asan’s hair and mashed their mouths together. Asan was rather sure the moan in his throat was strident, because he felt its passage. Unable to breathe, Asan sat straight and gulped in some air, his hands drifting down the ridges of muscle across Dasaf’s chest, knowing that the strength there was Asan’s to control. It was not often that Asan felt powerful, but he’d never felt more acutely so than when he sat astride Dasaf. Dasaf’s hands, his hips, his thighs, his arms, his beautiful broad back—it was all belonged to Asan.

            Their coupling ended with an explosion of ecstasy, and then dropped off sharply into exhaustion. Asan slumped forward, pressing his nose into the dip of Dasaf’s collarbone. His lungs ached and his legs trembled, but his mind had never been filled with such bliss. Slowly he rolled off of Dasaf before standing and grabbing a towel from the water basin he kept by the window. After wetting it, he returned to Dasaf and cleaned both of them with sure yet gentle strokes.

            Dasaf took Asan’s hand and pulled him close. Asan dropped his head to the hollow of Dasaf’s throat, then curled his legs and arms around Dasaf’s torso. Dasaf slid an arm under Asan, resting his elbow across Asan’s shoulder so he could run a hand through Asan’s hair. With his few good fingers, Asan explored the tiny curly hairs that sprinkled Dasaf’s chest. When he felt Dasaf’s breathing slow, he looked up and met his eyes.

            “No nightmares tonight,” Asan told him. “I promise.”

            Dasaf’s smile was sad yet sincere. “I hope not.”

            Asan kissed him. “I chase nightmares away for you.”

            Just as Asan had promised, both of them slept peacefully through the night, though Asan still dreamed of scorpion-shaped shadows and Dasaf standing in the distance, too far away to reach.

 

* * *

 

            Three days later, Dasaf awoke in a similar fashion he had three mornings before, though this time he did so in the alcove in his private garden. No nightmares had plagued him the night before, though he always felt them near, like timid wolf pups waiting for their mother to bring them tidbits of wild sheep to eat. Dasaf knew they’d return eventually, but for now it was nice to be granted respite. He twisted onto his side, lazily kissing Asan’s shoulder with a hum of satisfaction. Asan’s bleary eyes drifted open, and he smiled as Dasaf’s mouth pressed against the corner of his lips. Dasaf couldn’t help but push the blankets just a little lower so that he could appreciate the pink tint of sunrise on Asan’s skin. He only hoped that with a few more weeks of proper eating, Asan would regain all the weight he’d lost, as the glimpse of Asan’s ribcage served as a reminder of all they’d survived.

            “No,” Asan said, pressing a finger on the furrow between Dasaf’s eyebrows.

            Dasaf laughed, the tension in his face dissipating. He nuzzled Asan’s neck before pushing his hair back to reveal the crescent-shaped scar where Asan’s ear had once been. Now it was simply a hole in Asan’s head, though Asan usually kept it covered beneath the shag of his wavy hair.

            “If I could kill Yussam again, I would,” Dasaf said softly.

            “Yussam gone. No more think about Yussam.”

            Dasaf sighed. “I can’t help it. Every time I look at you and see what he did . . .”

            “Is all you see?”

            Asan always had some wisdom to impart. “Of course not. Above all I see your resilience, your stubborn insistence on survival. I see your strength, your bravery, your astounding capacity for forgiveness. I see a man who will never suffer again if _I_ have anything to say about the matter.”  
            Asan’s smile was slow yet true. “Always so . . .” His smile faded and he shrugged. “Not know word. Can sign.” He lifted his hands and made a gesture Dasaf didn’t understand. “Good with words.”

            “Eloquent?”

            Asan nodded. “Yes, this.”

            “My mother was quite the orator. She taught me the power of words.”

            Asan shifted, his head sinking deeper into the pillow. “Is good skill. Words change the world.” He blinked sluggishly. “Tired.”

            Dasaf kissed his eyelids before resting his head on Asan’s chest. Together, they drifted back into sleep.

            When Dasaf woke up again, it was to the sound of his name. When he shot up to a sit, he found Malika staring at him, arms crossed over her chest.

            “Malika!” He realized his own nudity and dragged the sheets higher up his chest. “What—what are you doing here?”

            “I came to see if you want to come to breakfast.” Her eyes flickered to Asan, who still slept. “I didn’t meant to _interrupt_.”

            “Haven’t you ever heard of _privacy_?”

            Her eyelids drooped while her eyebrows rose. It was an expression she had perfected in the years she’d been Suman, an expression of both disdain and condescension. “I do not usually make personal calls, but considering what you do with servants, perhaps it was right of me not to send one for you.”

            Flustered, Dasaf drew himself straighter in hopes of regaining some dignity. “If I say yes to breakfast, will you leave?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then I will come to breakfast, if you give me a few moments to dress.”

            “Very well then.” She nodded, took a few steps, then paused and looked back. At Dasaf’s horrified expression, she rolled her eyes. “Oh please, Dasaf. You were never _subtle_.”

            At that, she swept down the garden path. After stooping to pet Asan’s yipping dog, she stepped into Dasaf’s bedchamber and out of sight.

           

* * *

 

            “Are you touched in the head?”

            Leyla took a deep breath. She had spent the last two days preparing herself for this moment, and she would not run from it, as much as she would have liked to. “No, Malika, I am not.”

            “The _Mulli_?” Malika might as well have said _piss-soaked rag_ , as her inflection certainly implied it. “That _faskii_ miscreant?”

            “He is more than that, I assure you.”

            Malika’s eyes froze over, and she snapped to a stand. Leyla had expected such a reaction from her mother as well, but Leyla cared far more about her sister’s opinion than her mother’s. Leyla loved her sister, but she also knew how she could be. She had always been stubborn, but she had never been so cold before her marriage to Haadi. Leyla cursed Haadi every time she was faced with that sour rage that she had never seen before him.

            “Have you spoken to anyone about this?”

            “Dasaf.”

            Malika made a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “Ha! Dasaf. He’ll let you do anything you want, I imagine.”

            “Dasaf was not thrilled about it either.”

            “But he’s allowing it.”

            “He is not my father. I am a grown woman and I will do what I like.”

            “Spoken like a true child.”

            Leyla’s anger peaked before her shame did. “Why shouldn’t I be free to marry who I like? Many Khamal Hahnars do so.”

            “ _Peasants_ , of course. It doesn’t matter to _them_. When you’re poor, there are few stations you won’t accept.”

            “There are perhaps three other families Mother _might_ allow me to marry without disowning me.”

            “And what about those families then? What about _Dasaf_. My God, you and Dasaf have always been such fast friends—”

            “I do not love Dasaf and I never will.”

            Malika reacted as if Leyla had called her the daughter of a goat. “Oh _love_ , I see. You really are a child.”

            “I don’t see what is so childish in expecting some love out of a marriage that will last the rest of my life.”

            “There are no guarantees about that.”

            “How lucky you are, then, to have only been married three years to Haadi.”

            Malika ignored the slight. “You should be happy that you and Dasaf get along. When Haadi died, everyone expected you to step forward and do your duty, for both of our families. But you and Dasaf have always been so opposed to any responsibility whatsoever—”

            “Don’t speak ill of Dasaf when he is not here to defend himself.”

            “I can say whatever I like of Dasaf. I know that he is weak-willed and averse to duty, and perhaps I can’t hold that against him. His mother coddled him so much, what else can you expect?”

            “ _Coddled him_? She _protected_ him from the monster that was his father!”

            “And yet she failed to do so for Haadi! Do you think Haadi would have been the man he was if Nyasah had shown half the affection for him as she had Dasaf? Haadi was defenseless against Zhad, and she was too scared of him to help.” Malika pressed her lips tightly together before lifting a hand to her forehead. “This is not about Haadi and Dasaf. This is about you.”

            “I’m not shocked. Every conversation we have descends into how much you disapprove of Dasaf. And yet you want me to marry him.”

            “You seem to like him enough. I know you don’t love him, but you are friends, and that is more than many women have. If you don’t marry him, I fear Dasaf will never marry. Especially when he’s more interested in bedding male servants than anyone respectable.”

            Leyla winced. “Uh, I didn’t know that you—”

            “Oh, I’ve always been aware of it. Before this _faskii_ servant, it was Shallaf.”

            “Shallaf?” Leyla was shocked. Dasaf of course had done his share of flirtation with men and women both, and if she hadn’t been so close to him, perhaps she would have always been ignorant to his preferences. But _Shallaf_? How was that even possible? Shallaf had the warmth of ice, and he’d never been fond of Dasaf, at least that Leyla could see. “ _Shallaf_?”

            “I saw them once,” Malika admitted, her voice tinged with the slightest hint of embarrassment. “Nothing terribly obscene but . . .” She took a deep breath. “This is not about Dasaf! Or Shallaf, God rest his soul.”  
            “I’m not marring Dasaf, so you can stop trying to convince me.”

            “You can’t marry the Mulli.”

            “Raheed. His name is Raheed. And I will marry who I like. Unless you plan on tying me up and throwing me in the dungeon.”

            “You will shame our whole family.”

            “ _I_ will? Oh, I won’t feel any shame. If you do, then that is entirely _your_ problem. If Raheed weren’t _bhanak_ or _faskii_ , you’d have no problem with me marrying him. If I had wanted to marry Shallaf—”

            “—I would have stopped you.”

            “Not because of Shallaf’s status though.”

            “Shallaf was of humble bloodlines.”

            “And yet he was a great man who gave his life to save Dasaf’s. Raheed did the same. He is a man of honor and loyalty and if you weren’t so _stubborn_ , you might see that! All you see when you look at him is _Mulli_ , which is such a miniscule part of him that it is not worth seeing.”

            “He has killed Hahnars, Leyla.”

            “So have we! The Hahnars beyond the mountain have never been friends of Khamal, and we fought them for our independence. Are we to hold Raheed accountable for killing men that we ourselves have had no qualms in killing? Raheed had every opportunity to betray us to the Mullis, and yet he didn’t. He and Asan withstood torture and humiliation for us, and you act as if it is all nullified by the fact that they are _faskii_.”

            “I have no trouble admitting that they were honorable and loyal to our cause, and I have thanked Asan for this. But just because they did this does not grant them marriage to a Jhana, which even a commoner cannot do.”

            “Our Aunt Asif married a commoner.”

            “She was always odd and her announcement came as no surprise to anyone.”

            “Why am I different?”

            “My God, Leyla, you are beautiful! Men everywhere have always wanted you, and you could pick any of them! You could have handsome men or rich men and yet you choose a _Mulli_?”

            Leyla fell silent, and Malika looked away. With a sigh, Leyla stood and reached out to grasp her sister’s wrist.

            “Malika, look at me.”

            Malika’s eyes were still hard when she met Leyla’s gaze.

            “Beauty has never meant _choice_ , and you know it. Haadi wanted to marry _me_ , and he would have if not for you.”

            Malika pressed her lips together, the first sign of vulnerability. “You were so terrified of him. I couldn’t . . . I had to protect you. I have always done so.”

            “I know, Malika.” Leyla squeezed Malika’s wrist. “You were always so good at protecting me, almost to the point that I didn’t realize what danger I was in. But I don’t need your protection right now. Please look at me, Malika.”

            Malika’s eyes had drifted away again, and Leyla could not coax them back.

            “I love him. I know that it may seem childish and naïve to you, but it means the world to me. My whole life I have watched marriages fall apart into bitterness and misery: our parents’, Nyasah’s, yours. Can you fault me for wanting something different? What point is there to life if we don’t seek happiness for ourselves?”

            “You find happiness in your children. You can’t possibly understand what that’s like.”

            “Can’t I find happiness in children _and_ a husband? Why can’t I find both? Because of some status? What is status when you’re cold, sick, hungry? What is status when you’re alone and miserable? Let me tell you this. When I was healing those men, when I was watching those soldiers die . . . status was not what saved their lives. Status was not what they called out to before they slipped away. When they asked me to relay a message, it was not in regards to their status. What has always been the center of who we are is who we love. I know that more than ever. I’ve never been surrounded by so much death and suffering as I was the day after the battle, and it made me realize that I cannot live my life for others, for perceptions, for bloodlines. I will live life for joy and for love, and I’m sorry, but nothing you tell me will change that.”

            Malika pulled her wrist from Leyla’s hand and walked several steps away, crossing her arms over her chest. There was a long silence, but Leyla didn’t want to speak first.

            “I loved Haadi, Leyla,” Malika said, her back to her sister. “My love never changed anything.”

            “Raheed is not Haadi.” Leyla took a step closer. “Can you at least speak to him and see for yourself?”  
            Malika sighed, covering her face with a hand. “If you bring him to me, then perhaps I can speak to him.”

            Afraid to appear too overjoyed by the request, Leyla bit back a smile and nodded. “Yes, thank you, Malika.”

                         

* * *

 

            Raheed gulped down lukewarm tea, though his throat never seemed to lose its dryness. He’d faced men in battle, experienced generals, assassins, barbarians, crooks and thieves. And yet it was under the intense scrutiny of Leyla’s sister that he felt the powerful urge to run away. If they’d been on better terms, he might have suggested she become an officer in the military. Surely she’d get new recruits’ knees shaking with little effort.

            Fasa poured Malika some more tea. She had been called upon to translate, and she understood the gravity of the situation enough to keep from looking at Raheed too often.

            “My mother decided not to come,” Malika told him. “She is completely and utterly opposed to the whole thing. She has told Leyla that if she goes through with this, she can no longer call herself _Jhana_.”

            “I never expected that from such a cheerful woman,” Raheed replied.

            Malika’s expression did not soften, and Raheed realized that she was a woman whom his humor could not charm. He was navigating foreign territory now.

            “If you know what is best for Leyla, you will reject her offer and find another woman, a commoner who is more your station.”

            “I don’t know if you are acquainted with the same Leyla I am, but there will be no _rejecting_ her if she has anything to say about it.”

            “My sister is strong-willed but not infallible. There are a multitude of ways you could send her away. Telling her you don’t want to get married is one. After all,” Malika said as she took a sip from her tea, “you are a _bhanak_ , and I know that you’re not men of commitment.”

            “Because we are not allowed to be.”

            “Tell me, _Raheed_.” Malika said his name as if it were a curse, “how many whores have you been with?”

            “I don’t . . .” Raheed cleared his throat, choking back anger, “I don’t believe that’s anyone’s business.”

            “Oh, it’s my business because I say it is.”

            “You expect me to count how many brothels I’ve been to? I can’t possibly give you a number.”

            “Ah. I see.” Malika took another sip of her tea, and it felt like the lash of a whip. It was as if she’d learned all she needed to know. “I will tell you now that Leyla will not be mistaken for any cheap whore at a trade post brothel, and I can’t trust that you understand that. _Bhanak_ have such terrible reputations, and I’ve seen nothing that disproves it.”

            Raheed’s throat was clogged with all the words he wanted to say. He took a moment to compose himself. “I’ve heard a great many terrible things about Hahnars too. They tell us you sacrifice your children to false gods and that you drink the blood of camels. I suppose that’s all true as well?”

            “I have never sacrificed a child or drank blood like a Matij,” Malika replied immediately. “But you _have_ visited brothels, so the comparison is a faulty one.”

            “I visited brothels because I believed there was no other option. If I’d had the ability to marry—”

            “—you would have married, had children, then gone off to war to whore and murder like everybody else. So perhaps we should all thank God that whoring is not your most grievous sin.”

            “What do you want from me? Do you want to chastise me for a past I can’t change? Perhaps you want to lord your pedigree over me, carry on about all the great conquerors and kings in your background, as if that changes anything. I was born to a peasant woman in a place I barely remember. I hate so much about Mulli, but they did take boys with nothing and give them a slip of humanity, even if it was only temporary. I can read and write, I know history and geography, and I can lead an army. Leyla wouldn’t be marrying some pauper who climbed out of a well. I am _faskii_ and I am _bhanak_ , but beyond my blood I am every bit as noble and distinguished as the rest of your Khamal soldiers.”

            “Do you love her?”

            “Pardon?” Raheed was so thrown by the question that for a moment he thought he’d heard it wrong.

            “Do you love her?”

            “Well—of course! Why else would I want to marry her?”

            “Would you get on your knees and swear that to me? Could you promise her a lifetime of supreme joy and utter respect? Could you vow to spend every moment making her day more fulfilling than the last?”

            “I—”

            “If she needs you, will you be at her attention? If she weeps, will you be there to care for her? If she’s frightened, will you seek her safety above all else? Have you ever spent any part of your life caring, loving, and treasuring another? This is my fear. I don’t care if you’re educated, or that you’re a fierce warrior. And if I am to be truly honest, I don’t even care that you’re _bhanak_ , or _faskii_. My deepest and most sincere fear is that you will not care for my sister in the way she needs. She doesn’t need a husband; she needs a man who enriches her life. I doubt that a man who throws gold coins at pretty whores could know _anything_ about the commitment and hard work that a marriage requires, especially a happy one. I spent much of my marriage in such dark turmoil that my own life became worthless, and I will _not_ see the same thing happen to my sister. I will _die_ before that happens, and I would kill a man to make sure it doesn’t. Do you understand me, Mulli?”

            Her gaze gouged into him deeper than a sword, and Raheed took a deep breath.

            “I loved a whore once,” he admitted. “I would have married her if I could have. But she would not have me, and I was foolish to think she cared for me at all. All I saw was what she wanted me to see, and it was her act that I had fallen in love with. There was a depth to her she had never shown me, and I know that now. You say I don’t understand commitment, and if you had told me this two years ago, you would have been right. I didn’t understand love then. I thought it was a transaction, and that if I gave her enough money and attention that she’d _have_ to love me. After all, am I not charming and handsome? How _couldn’t_ she love me?

            “Much later, someone I was very close to admitted that for years and years they had harbored affection for me, and I had never known it. Never once had they asked for money or affection, and yet they were always there, taking care of me when I drank too much, when I stumbled home from brothels or battles out of my wits. There were a million reasons to leave me to my own devices—I deserved to be abandoned. But they stayed, because of loyalty and love. _That_ , Honored Suman, is commitment. My servant has shown this to me, and I know I never deserved it. He has taught me many lessons, but this was his greatest one. Asan’s sense of loyalty runs so deep that he withstood torture for those he loved, and he still has the capacity to forgive. If I could ever be half of what Asan has been to me, I believe I could be the husband Leyla deserves.”

            It took Fasa quite a while to translate, but once she had, Malika laid her cup of tea down and closed her eyes. If she could not see reason in Raheed’s plea, there was nothing else he could say.

            “You swear to me that you’d never hurt her?” she finally asked, her gaze still rooted on the cup she’d placed on the floor. “Would you stake your life on it?”

            “Life is not entirely free of mistakes or pain,” Raheed replied, “but I will swear upon your God and a million others that I would never hurt her.”

            Malika regarded him for a long silent moment before finally nodding. “If that is your word before God, then I will hold you to it. You may go now.”

            “But . . . does this mean I’m allowed to marry her?”

            “It means I won’t stop you,” Malika said. “Unless you give me reason to change my mind.”

            He stood, then bowed low. “Thank you, Honored Suman. Leyla is more than I had ever dared pray for.”

            Malika watched him as he walked away; he felt the heat of her eyes on his back. Only once he’d slipped into the hall did he let himself slump with relief. Malika’s threats loomed larger than her approval, but there _had_ been some of the latter, which was all that mattered.

            Soon, he’d be a married man, and nothing made him happier.


	41. Wedding Arrangements

 

            Raheed squinted at the list Asan had written him. Asan watched the question formulate in his mind before he actually said it.

            “I don’t think I have the money for all of this.”

            “I buy.”

            “With what?”

            Asan held up a leather pouch. “With this.”

            “Where did you get that?”

            “I steal,” Asan said, but when Raheed gave him a look he smirked. “Secret.”

            “Dasaf gave that to you, didn’t he?”

            “Dasaf give to me so I give to you.”

            Raheed pursed his lips but said nothing. He glanced back down at the list. While he appeared ecstatic to be marrying Leyla, he’d shown immediate disinterest in the process. Perhaps he thought he would just show up at the temple and get it over with within the hour. Asan didn’t know much about Hahnar weddings, but he had asked Dasaf. It was far more complicated than a simple vow. There were gifts to be exchanged, ceremonies to be done, families to impress. Asan took some smug pleasure in watching Raheed squirm under the expectations, for Asan knew he himself would never be getting married.

            “I have to buy three _goats_?”

            “For sacrifice.”

            “I thought the Hahnars didn’t do sacrifices.”

            “No sacrifice _babies_. Sacrifice goats, then eat.”

            Raheed’s eyes flickered down the list. “A camel too?”

            “For Leyla.”

            “She already _has_ a horse _and_ a camel.”

            “Raheed, no complain.” Asan shoved the bag of coins into his arms. “Just shop.”

            “I miss the days when you didn’t act like my mother,” Raheed grumbled, and Asan decided to ignore it.

            The shopping took several hours. They purchased spices, jewelry, clothing, several books, herbs for Leyla’s collection of remedies and, at the end, the goats and a camel. Raheed didn’t enjoy any of it, acting as if Asan were doling out a punishment. Asan was halfway between amusement and annoyance. Asan had gone to the market every day for years, and if he’d acted like Raheed surely Elder Hassad would have thrown him out. At the same time, Asan enjoyed bossing Raheed about. It was a nice change, and it was a sign that their relationship was less imbalanced now. Perhaps they could finally be friends.

            They packed all their items except for the goats on the camel’s back, then started their slow trek back to the alcazar. Asan took the camel and Raheed the goats, but they had to switch when the goats kept twisting away from Raheed and then butting him in the rear.

            “I thought I might feel guilty about killing them, but now I’m rather looking forward to it,” Raheed muttered as Asan took the goats by their twine collars and pulled them away. Asan just laughed, batting away one goat who tried to chew on the corner of Asan’s caftan.

            They put the camel and goats in an empty horse stall. Asan said hello to Nutmeg on his way back into the alcazar with the rest of the goods, and she reached over him to nuzzle Raheed’s hair. Raheed pushed her away with a frown.

            “What is with these _animals_ today?”

            “They like you,” Asan said, reaching up to pat Raheed’s cheek. “Very handsome.”

            Raheed pushed him away too, and Asan chuckled.

            Several soldiers turned to look at them as they entered through the main alcazar gates, a few even bowing their heads at Raheed, who nodded back. The relationship between the Hahnars and Raheed was still awkward, but each side made attempts to appear cordial. Some had even started calling him Raheed, though Asan had yet to see any _shuma_ leave anyone’s lips. Many were very slow to warm, perhaps still unwilling to see the honorable Shallaf replaced by a _faskii_ stranger.

            Dasaf stood in the main plaza with several of his men, wearing the beige nondescript clothing he trained in. Judging by his keffiyeh, he must have been outside since early morning. He noticed their entrance and turned to greet them. Meanwhile, his men dispersed.

            “That’s quite a sack of goods you have,” he said to Raheed. “For the ceremony tonight, I imagine?”

            “Yes, at least that’s what Asan has told me.”

            “Normally both families gift one another, but I doubt the Jhanas will give you anything, considering their disagreement with the arrangement.”

            “Wonderful. What lovely in-laws I’m to gain.”

            Dasaf chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Welcome to the married life then. Now you know why I’ve avoided it.”

            Raheed took the sack that Asan carried and held one in each hand. “Well, I’m sure that’s not the _only_ reason you haven’t married. Asan, is that dog of yours trained to retrieve you yet?”    

            Asan shook his head. His mutt was still too young to teach much besides “roll about and bark”.

            “Then I’ll find you somehow. If you need me Dasaf, you know where to find me.”

            Raheed hobbled away, straining under the weight of his purchases. Asan and Dasaf both watched him go before Asan turned to Dasaf.

            “You train today?”

            “Huh? Oh, yes.” Dasaf brushed off his cloak, and a small cloud of dust and sand lifted. “I was on patrol this morning.”  
            “All good?”

            Dasaf smiled. “All is well.”

            Asan nodded. Out in the main plaza, he didn’t dare do anything more intimate than stand close at Dasaf’s side. While Leyla and Raheed were accepting enough, surely others would not be.

            Dasaf must have read his mind. “Perhaps we should go inside?”  
            Asan nodded, and together they stepped into the alcazar. They walked in silence, passing through elegant verandas overlooking lush gardens and crystal pools made from jade and copper tiles. Several of the servants’ children ran along a low wall, chasing one another until they lost their balance. It had felt like forever since Asan could truly take his time to appreciate the beauty and tranquility of the alcazar. There were still signs of damage from its siege, but Asan knew that those would eventually fade. The alcazar was older than Dasaf’s family line, perhaps older than written history.

            They paused by a small courtyard with a single tree and tiny songbirds hopping about its base. From what Asan could see, they had moved deep enough into the alcazar to find relative privacy.

            “Raheed marry Leyla,” Asan told Dasaf. “What you do now?”

            “I learn to juggle and join a traveling circus,” Dasaf replied with a smirk, his hand now resting on the small of Asan’s back.

            “I come with. Bring camel, train dog.”

            Dasaf laughed. “What an odd pair we’d make.” Then he sobered and pulled off his keffiyeh, briefly baring his neck as he turned away from Asan. Asan reached up and brushed his fingers along the brand he found there.

            “What this?”

            “Huh? Oh.” Dasaf’s fingers pressed against Asan’s as he traced the ridges of the mark. “The mark of the _bhanak_.”

            “How you get?” Asan asked, distressed.

            “Raheed gave it to me, actually. I suppose he wanted us to match.” When Asan gave him a stern look, Dasaf sighed. “It was one method General Yussam employed to humiliate me. Now I will wear the mark of Mulli slavery for the rest of my life.”

            “Who knows?”

            “Only Raheed. And now you.”

            Asan slid his thumb across the scarred skin. He’d seen it so often on Raheed that he no longer thought of it as a brand, just a mere imperfection, like a birthmark. Asan moved around behind Dasaf, pulling back the folds of his cloak so he could press a kiss to the brand. He then dug his face into Dasaf’s dusty clothing and wrapped his arms around his waist in a firm hug. He felt the vibration of Dasaf’s chuckle, then silence. Finally Asan removed his face from Dasaf’s cloak and moved to where he could see him.

            “What you do now?” Asan asked. “Not join circus.”

            “I rule until Altaf is of age.”

            “After?”

            Dasaf shrugged. “I can’t say.”

            “You marry?”

            “Are you asking me?” Dasaf joked.

            Asan folded his hands in front of him and watched two birds hop into the granite bowl of water provided for them. Droplets of water flew as they fluffed their feathers and rolled about. “ _Jusef_?”

            “ _Jusefs_ are only for war. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Dasaf sobered, then reached out for Asan’s hand. It was still bandaged, though it didn’t hurt anymore, at least if he didn’t move his fingers too much. “I don’t want to get married. My grandmother will never forgive me, and I suppose my people will all be gravely disappointed. I know it is my duty, and I know that it is an enormous risk, with my nephew being the only heir. But . . . I saw what it did to my mother, to Malika. I could never love the woman I marry, not like your Raheed loves Leyla.”

            “Not _my_ Raheed, Dasaf.”

            Dasaf smiled sadly, but he didn’t correct himself. “It would be a lonely existence, for me and her. I fear she’d come to resent me, maybe hate me. I’ve got enough women in this alcazar resenting me. And it would certainly affect my children. Maybe they’d resent me too.”

            “Altaf not resent.”

            “I did not create him. I’m only present enough to spoil him and offer him guidance.” Dasaf shook his head. “I thought that perhaps I could swallow down my aversion and do it for my people, but . . .” His eyes flickered to Asan. “Now that I have you, I imagine that will be very difficult. A man who has never eaten fruit will gladly consume gruel his whole life, but give him a taste of fruit and he’ll never want gruel again.”

            Asan hated to see Dasaf so distressed. It was not like the man Asan had come to know before, and he wanted to fix it. However, perhaps Asan did not possess that skill, considering how he had never managed to cure Raheed of his melancholy. It had been Leyla that had relit the spirit in Raheed, and Asan didn’t pretend to have half her grace or beauty.

            “Whatever you do,” Asan said, reaching up and placing a hand on Dasaf’s jaw so that he would face him, “I support.”

            Dasaf dipped down and kissed him lightly, and Asan leaned into the contact. There was no quick fix for Dasaf, but perhaps with time he could rebuild himself. They could rebuild one another. After all, Asan too had not escaped without his scars, and this life in the alcazar was the first time he’d had any freedom. If one were to ask him what he was beyond a servant and a caretaker, Asan might have difficulty answering. Yet surely there was more to him—all he had to do was find it.

            Asan felt paws on his leg, so he pulled back and looked down at his dog, who sat and watched him expectantly. Smiling, he leaned down and pet her.

            “Do you have a name for that dog yet?” Dasaf asked, his hand still running in light circles along Asan’s upper arm and shoulder.

            Asan shook his head. “You find in alley?”

            “Yes, hidden away.”

            A smile crossed Asan’s mouth. “Like treasure.”

            Dasaf chuckled. “Not really the treasure I’d _like_ to find.”

            Asan turned to face his pup, who stood and wiggled her stubby tail upon receiving his attention. “Treasure.”

            She barked, as if in approval. Dasaf laughed and stroked her head. Asan pressed his face into Dasaf’s bent and exposed neck, wrapping his arms around his torso and allowing himself to soak in the happy moment. Dasaf returned his embrace, then pressed a kiss to his temple. His jaw was prickly with his new beard growth, but Asan didn’t mind.

            “Come,” Dasaf said as Asan pulled away. “I feel like I have half the desert in my trousers. I am going to take a long hot bath, and you’re welcome to join me if you wish.”

            Asan nodded. The hot baths were pleasant on their own, but Asan was particularly excited at the prospect of seeing Dasaf both wet and naked. “I come. Wash back.”

            Dasaf chuckled. “You’re good at that.”

            With Treasure trotting along beside them, they headed for Dasaf’s private baths.

 

* * *

 

            “It’s customary for the families of both the bride and groom to throw parties the night before the wedding,” Leyla explained. “It’s called a _khada_.”

            “I don’t have a family.”

            “Well . . .” Leyla trailed off. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Raheed hadn’t been in a particularly gracious mood lately, clearly irritated with the extent of the ceremonies and customs necessary for a wedding. He must have assumed it was as simple as a cleric reciting a few lines, and as much as Leyla would have preferred that, she had to honor tradition, if only to placate her family, none of whom were pleased with Leyla’s decision. She had to make amends where she could, and that meant involving her family in the proceedings.

            “Does it mean I’m exempt?”

            “I don’t know. Generally the festivities are enjoyable. There is food and music and . . . well.” She cleared her throat. “With me, only the women attend. So it’s a bit more rowdy than it would were my male family members present.”

            “So if I had a family, I’d be partying with women?”

            “No, you’d be partying with the men. It’s seen as a night for a bride or groom to get advice on marriage and the like.” Leyla didn’t mention that it was mostly advice for wedding _nights_. When Malika had her _khada_ celebration, Leyla’s cousins had been particularly lewd, and only her aunt’s chiding had quieted them. Leyla still smiled to think of it, though she’d been far more scandalized at the time.

            “I can’t think of any men who could give me that advice. The only ones I really know are Dasaf and Asan, and neither of them are married. Not that I’d want their advice anyway.”

            “If my father were alive, he might have offered.” Leyla’s father had enjoyed drinking, and Leyla imagined he might have liked Raheed. He was a man who appreciated bravery and substance, and even when Haadi had only shown him the smallest courtesies, Leyla’s father had approved. _Haadi is a strong man and a strong leader_ , her father had said, though he never discussed it more than that. That was one of his greatest flaws—his unwillingness to see others’ failings, including his own. Everyone knew that Haadi could be cruel, cold, and prone to rage. Yet no one discussed it, leaving Malika alone with her fear. It had been her father’s job to protect his daughter, but he had never stepped up to the task. It was easier to be proud of her daughter’s marriage than it was to stand up against the Sumas.

            “Considering those of your family I’ve met, I’m not sure if I’d like that.”

            “My mother and sister are difficult, but my whole family is not like that. Why, just yesterday my cousin Taja asked me about you. She thinks you’re very handsome.”

            Raheed’s bored expression brightened, his ego flickering back to life. “What did she ask?”

            “She’d heard you were some Mulli noble and wanted to know if you were rich.” Leyla rolled her eyes. “Taja has never been particularly bright.”

            “But is she lovely?”

            Leyla glared at him, and Raheed laughed, throwing his hands up in apology.

            “You don’t have to have a _khada_ celebration,” Leyla said, returning to the topic. “But perhaps you and Asan can do something, as I will be occupied at mine.”

            “I’m certain I can keep myself occupied.”

            “Just don’t get into trouble.”

            Raheed winked. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

            Malika sipped at her wine, watching several distant cousins of hers grasp one another’s arms and dance in a circle to the beat of the riq, falling apart and giggling when they grew dizzy. In a corner across the room sat the elderly women of her family, though with so much wine and _arak_ , they too had devolved into raucous laughter. So much for being a symbol of dignity and grace. At least Malika’s mother was her usual vision of stalwart indifference, sipping camel’s milk and talking in a low voice to her sister, who was much more jolly.

            Leyla nibbled at her stuffed grape leaves, dressed in a vibrant orange caftan. She wore a sparkling beaded veil wrapped around her head and draped with silver trinkets. Kohl lined her eyes, and her wrists and ankles jingled with the weight of gold jewelry. No bride could have been more beautiful, and Malika fought the envy that rose. It wasn’t the finery Leyla wore but the smile on her face, the uncomplicated joy in her laugh, the hope and excitement that filled her eyes. Even if Malika didn’t approve of her choice of husband, there was no question that Leyla was happier now than Malika had ever seen her.

            Taja and her twin sister Jaka sidled over to Leyla, looking mischievous. No twins had ever looked so different, but they seemed to share the same mind. Their mother was a haggard woman who was a victim of a fruitful marriage. By the time she’d birthed her eighth child, she had no interest in discipline, so her youngest daughters did what they pleased without fear of reprimand. They did show some restraint around Malika, but clearly not enough.

            “I can’t believe you’re marrying a _Mulli_ ,” Jaka giggled. She was short and squat with a face to match, but she had been gifted with wide, expressive eyes.

            “He’s rather dashing for a _faskii_ ,” her thin and tall sister Taja said. “What does his hair feel like? Have you touched it?”

            Malika tried to ignore them as Leyla laughed.

            “His hair feels different than ours, but it is nice enough,” Leyla told them.

            “Is he hairy like other _faskiis_? I imagine they look like monkeys naked.” Both girls burst out laughing, and Leyla had to hush them.

            “Perhaps he brushes his arm hair like one would brush a donkey,” Jaka continued, and Taja cackled.

            Malika moved to interrupt, but Leyla put her hand on her arm and shook her head.

            “They’re just curious girls,” Leyla whispered.

            “A bit _too_ curious,” Malika grumbled.

            “Mullis do seem a bit brutish,” Taja agreed. Her eyes brightened and she whipped around to face Leyla. “I wonder how _large_ he is.”

            Both girls lost it, falling over one another in delight at their naughtiness. Leyla had to shush them, showing a bit of embarrassment for the first time. They scampered away, whispering to one another and giggling.

            “I’m terrified for whoever _they_ marry,” Malika said.

            “Their husbands will certainly have their hands full.”

            “You should have castigated them.”

            Leyla shrugged. “Let them have their fun. That’s what youth is for. Besides. _Khada_ s aren’t known for their dignity.”

            Malika scoffed. While her own _khada_ had its share of gaiety, there had also been a stiffness, a silent acknowledgement of her new role as Suman. Sumans were not silly girls tittering over handsome men. While she was expected to be a loving mother and loyal wife, she was also soon to become the most powerful woman in Khamal, and that was no affair to take lightly.

            “Has Mother spoken to you at all?”

            “Briefly.” Leyla took another bite from her stuffed grape leaf, snatching up a few of the pine nuts that fell out. “She didn’t have much to say. She’s still angry with me.”

            “What did she say?”

            Leyla took a deep breath and adopted her mother’s smooth, unaffected expression. “ ‘Leyla, a wife looks after her husband’s desires without succumbing to her own. It is not always easy, but it is a duty and it is the secret to a happy marriage.’” She scoffed. “You know, Mother’s version of encouragement.”

            “She said something similar to me.”

            “As if she knows anything about a happy marriage.”      

            “She’s only trying to help.”

            Leyla shrugged. The oud overtook the riq, and a great aunt began to sing along in an uneven warble. Two little girls squealed as they chased one another across the room, only to be scolded by their mothers.

            “I’d rather hear _your_ advice,” Leyla murmured, running a finger along the edge of her plate and sucking off the olive oil it had gathered. “I trust in your honesty.”

            “My situation was very different.”

            “Yes, but . . .” Leyla looked down at her lap, “you _did_ have a wedding night.”

            Malika did not like to remember it. Yet now that Leyla was close to having one of her own, perhaps it was time for Malika to tell her. “It was unpleasant.”

            “Oh.”

            Honesty was not what Leyla needed, and yet it came bubbling up, too powerful to stop. “Haadi and I . . . we consummated only six times.”

            Leyla gaped at her now. “In three years?”

            Malika nodded. She had counted, just like she had counted through the minutes it had taken to end those rare nights Haadi had touched her. Even years later, nightmares of his shadowy figure arriving at her doorway visited her, filling her with the dread she had hoped to forget.

            “Why?” Leyla whispered.

            Malika shrugged. Why did she still feel shame almost fourteen years later? Her mother had been insistent that wives accommodate their husbands’ desires, and Malika had felt like a failure for not fulfilling the task. It wasn’t because she hadn’t loved him enough, that she hadn’t _wanted_ to make him happy. He had simply been impossible to read, and when he was with her, she always felt like he’d rather be anywhere else. At best he tolerated her presence, though of course he’d never say it. She was still haunted with the memory of his quick retreat the moment the deed was done, even on their first night, back when they still slept in the same bed. No words of affection or even apology had been said, even as she cried silently into her pillow. Just silence.

            Silence had been something her marriage with Haadi always had in surplus.

            “What was it like?” Leyla asked.

            “It hurt.” Malika did not elaborate upon _how much_ , nor the blood that she’d found on the sheets the next morning. “It was terrible.”

            “Oh.” Leyla’s face fell, and she looked away.

            Malika reached out and took her hand. “It will be better for you.”

            “He’s been with many women,” Leyla replied.

            “I know.”

            “What if he’s disappointed?”

            Malika grasped Leyla’s head and kissed her forehead. “You will amaze him, Leyla. How can you not? You are wonderful and bright, and he should be thanking God that a woman of such quality would deign him worthy.”

            Leyla buried her head in Malika’s neck as she embraced her. As children, they had been inseparable. Leyla’s beauty had only come later, and she’d been an awkward child. Two male cousins had mocked her gap-toothed smile, and so Malika pushed them out a window, resulting in one’s broken arm. Malika had been beaten and scolded for her crime, but she had never regretted it, and she imagined she’d shove Raheed out a window if it meant defending her sister.

            “You deserved more than the marriage you  had,” Leyla told her. “I’m so sorry.”

            “Everything happens for a reason. Haadi gave me Altaf, and so in this he has given me the love of my life.”

            “Have you thought of marrying again?”

            Malika shook her head. “All men want to do is tell you what to do and what to say. I rather like doing as I please.”

            Leyla chuckled. “Malika . . . can you promise me that you’ll be nice to Raheed? He will be my husband, after all.”

            Malika snorted and fell silent. She tried to separate Raheed’s background from her opinion of him, but that was difficult. Could she ever see him as one of them instead of some dirty Mulli dog? Perhaps once he learned Hahnar it would be easier.

            “For you, I will try,” Malika said.

            Leyla kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Malika. Now . . . I think I will try some of that rice pudding before my nerves about tomorrow steal my appetite.”

 

* * *

 

            “Can’t wait for this all to be over,” Raheed grumbled as Asan tried for the third time to tie his turban correctly. Asan was used to working with material that was not so slippery, so his efforts kept falling apart or slumping sideways. Asan didn’t dare let Raheed try; he nearly killed himself shaving already.

            Asan came at the turban this time armed with several pins, which he used to attach the turban to Raheed’s hair. Raheed wasn’t happy about it, but he was so impatient for Asan to finish that he had stopped complaining.

            “You said Dasaf gave you this turban?” Raheed asked. Asan nodded, and Raheed rolled his eyes. “I bet he’s trying to spite me.”

            “Dasaf only being nice.”

            “You think too highly of him.”

            Asan shrugged, putting two pins in his mouth as he attempted to keep the wrap from folding over itself. Raheed might have said more about Dasaf, but Asan didn’t see it, and he tried to keep focused on his work. By the time he finished, he was rather satisfied with the result. Raheed looked like a sheikh in his silk turban and its intricate embroidery. All he needed were some of those huge Khamal gold earrings and he’d fit right in.

            Raheed admired himself in the mirror while Asan retrieved the caftan, another gift from Dasaf. It was heavier than Asan had expected, nothing one would wear during the course of a normal day. In the fading light filtering through the window, the gold stitching in the sunburst design glittered. Raheed joined him in the center of the room, reaching out to run a hand along the material.

            “Impressive,” he said.

            Asan brusquely pushed Raheed’s arms out so that he could slide them through the caftan sleeves. After picking at the seams to make sure there were no wrinkles, Asan took a samite sash from its hanger and used it to belt Raheed’s waist. He had gained weight since their imprisonment at the Mulli camp, and now that he was able to ride and exercise more, much of the weight was muscle. Asan ignored the twinges of leftover attraction and retrieved Raheed’s shoes. By the time they finished, Raheed could have ridden into Ayllamal and been mistaken for a sultan—that is, if he had a fuller beard. He had forgone his captain’s beard, but he still kept his facial hair trimmed so as to avoid looking like a cleric or caliph. Surely Leyla would appreciate the forethought, because while Asan had always liked Dasaf’s full beard, Raheed’s grew faster and much more wild.

            “Well, _I’d_ marry me,” Raheed told his reflection, then laughed. Asan just smiled, fighting back a nostalgic pang of longing. What he felt for Raheed was no longer the pathetic desperation from before, but he’d be lying if he said that he had moved on completely. With Raheed came warm memories, from when they’d first met, to Raheed’s sign language lessons, to the moment Raheed had rescued him from that quarry, to the jade camel he’d bought him, to the warmth and friendship that only Raheed had ever offered Asan. Raheed had never been _his_ , but yet he always had been. Asan had done everything for Raheed, had seen him at his best and worst, had loved him through it all. He felt a bit like a mother letting go of her child upon realizing that he’d grown up. Leyla would be to Raheed what Asan had been for years, and Asan knew that Raheed would be immensely and perfectly happy with her, probably in ways he’d never been with Asan. That should have made Asan content, but it made him sad too. Raheed had been an integral part of his identity; Raheed had _needed_ him. Asan felt the cold realization that he wasn’t needed anymore, and it was an immense blow. What would he do with himself without Raheed to fret over? What else could he dedicate to his life to? What would it be like to be free of his obsession with his soldier, to finally be with a man who wanted him, to know that his life was free to do with what he wanted? It was a promising future, but it scared him at the same time.

            Asan must have gone eerily silent, because Raheed twisted around to look at him.

            “Are you alright?” Raheed asked.

            Asan nodded, smiling sadly. Raheed approached him, then drew him into a firm hug. When he pulled back, he patted Asan’s cheek affectionately.

            “It’s a good thing, you know,” Raheed told him, resting his hands on Asan’s shoulders. “Now it’s Leyla’s turn to put up with me. I imagine she’ll be less kind about it than you.”

            Asan tried to smile again, but his face twitched with the effort.

            “Oh, Asan.” Raheed seemed to understand for once. “There’s a much greater man for you to love now.”

            Asan pressed his lips tightly together in hopes it might stem the pressure of tears, but they gathered anyway. He threw himself upon Raheed, wrapping his arms tightly around his back and shoving his face deep into the stiff material of his ceremonial caftan. Raheed’s embrace was so strong it nearly pushed the air out of Asan, but Asan welcomed the feeling of breathlessness.

            Raheed pulled away first. “I’ll still need you from time to time. If my ass is ever in danger, I know who to count on.”

            Asan nodded, running a hand under his nose and then signing, _No more arak for you. Or brothels._

            Raheed laughed, then nodded, replying, _If Leyla finds me at a brothel, I imagine I’ll have bigger problems than your disappointment._

            Asan dug through Raheed’s collection of clothing and trinkets until he found the Khamal scorpion pin. After Raheed draped his dark green cloak over his shoulders, Asan fastened it in place with the pin, which glittered as gold as his turban’s embroidery. It reminded Asan of his dream years before, and he wondered exactly what moment it had foretold. No longer could Raheed call himself a Mulli, or even a _bhanak_. He had every inch the presence of a Khamal warrior, and Asan decided it was his best look yet.

            _I am proud of you,_ Asan said.

            _That means a lot to me, for I admire you a great deal._ Raheed squeezed his shoulder with a hand, then turned to the door as it opened. Fasa poked her head inside.

            “The procession down to the temple has started,” she said. “Best get on your horse now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I predict maybe one or two more chapters more, and then this will be finished. :)


	42. Devotion

            Growing up in the military had given Raheed some patience for useless ceremony, but he was beginning to wonder if he might die of old age before the High Khalkar finished his prayer. Raheed understood perhaps one out of ever ten words, and the caftan he wore itched like crazy. Even Leyla couldn’t distract him, as she was mostly hidden behind a long red veil. A sheet covered both their heads as they sat on a cushion before the raised platform where the High Khalkar stood, making it difficult to breathe and limiting Raheed’s peripheral vision. Raheed hoped this wasn’t some sort of glimpse into the married life, because so far he wasn’t impressed. Most of Leyla’s family barely acknowledged his existence, and he imagined his relationship with his in-laws would get worse before it got better. Malika had shown him the most courtesy thus far, and “courtesy” meant saying his name and nodding when he passed her in the hall. He had yet to be invited to any meals, only occasional meetings over bread and tea with Dasaf and several other advisors who _also_ barely tolerated him. Raheed had fostered high hopes for Khamal, and they were quickly turning stale. His life in the alcazar was better than the one locked in a cell, but sometimes he found himself yearning for the military life. At least then he’d been respected.

            By the time Raheed’s downward spiral of thoughts had concluded, so did the High Khalkar’s prayer. Finally— _finally—_ the man bent and picked up a porcelain pitcher of milk as well as a bowl of honey. He said something about the symbolism of each, then asked Leyla to pour Raheed a glass of milk. She turned, allowing him to see her face at last. Beyond her beauty, there was hope and laughter in her eyes, reminding him of why he was here to begin with. He smiled just slightly as he sipped the milk, then offered her a spoonful of honey. Then the next prayer droned on, but Leyla caught Raheed’s eye, and he felt his dread melt.

            Some herbs and spices were sprinkled in a circle around them, then above their heads. They were asked to join hands and then touch their foreheads to the scorpions on the rug before them, so Raheed bowed low while clutching Leyla’s fingers between his. Three times this was done before the final words were uttered and the sheet over their heads was cast off.

            Raheed was officially married.

            The wedding party would commence in the house of the groom, which was the alcazar, so the procession headed back up the hill. Once in the great hall, servants distributed food and wine, and the music began to play. Raheed and Leyla were led to the front of the room and sat overlooking the celebration. Now was the time to receive gifts and congratulations.

            Darim Altaf was one of the first to approach, already looking like a man in his smartly fitted blue caftan and white turban, which matched his smile.

            “Congratulations, Aunt Leyla,” he said, bowing his head slightly before placing a box in front of her. “Mother and I agreed that you may want some more herbs for your remedies.”

            “Thank you, Altaf,” Leyla said.

            Darim Altaf turned to Raheed, who had not expected anything from anyone. Altaf presented something long and thin wrapped in a brown velvet cloth.

            “This is for you, Raheed.”

            Raheed took the gift and unwrapped it. The dagger was light, with a curved blade and a grip made of carved ivory.

            “My uncle says you are deft with a weapon,” Darim Altaf said, grinning. “I thought you might like it.”

            Raheed struggled to find words. He knew Darim Altaf was not yet Sumas, but should Raheed treat him like one? One could not be too polite in regards to this boy; he was one powerful ally to make, and perhaps one of the easiest to secure. Compared to his frosty reception elsewhere, Raheed’s interaction with Darim Altaf was hopeful.

            “I—thank you, shuma.” Raheed bowed his head low. “It is an honor.”

            “Perhaps I can teach you how to use it,” Darim Altaf said with a mischievous laugh before darting away.

            “He likes you,” Leyla whispered to Raheed.

            “We’ll see how long that lasts.”      

            The rest of those who came forward brought items for Leyla, lavishing her with heavy praise as they blatantly ignored Raheed. Raheed tried not to let it bother him, but at the same time, he had hoped for better. What else could he do to prove his worth, outside of what he’d already risked?

            The music returned, and Leyla’s family redistributed themselves throughout the hall, growing louder and more boisterous as the wine flowed. Raheed had just finished off his first glass when Asan appeared at his side, dressed in a caftan too fine for his station.

            “There you are! I was wondering when you’d show.”

            Asan bowed his head when Leyla faced him, lowering himself to his knees beside Raheed before presenting him with a scroll.

            “What is this?” Raheed pulled it apart to view the illustration, which was a portrait of himself and Leyla rendered in ink, captioned with Asan’s elegant handwritten script. It was not on par with Asan’s usual calligraphy, but it was far more than Raheed was capable of. The likeness of himself and Leyla was unmistakable.

            “Oh, Asan!” Leyla remarked, looking over Raheed’s shoulder at the portrait. “It’s beautiful! Raheed, how would I say that with my hands?”

            _It’s wonderful_ , Raheed signed, slowly for Leyla. _You are very talented._

            Asan flushed a shade pinker, but he glowed with pride as he nodded. _Thank you_.

            Leyla reached across Raheed’s lap to squeeze Asan’s arm. “It means so much to me that you’re here. We all owe our lives to you, Asan. If there’s anything I can do—”

            Asan shook his head. “No problem. I happy.” Asan smiled to prove it.

            “I hope Dasaf makes sure of that. Where is he anyway? He’s usually the loudest in these sorts of crowds.”

            “Around,” Asan said. “I know.”

            “Hmm.” Leyla pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Well, you keep him in line, Asan. God knows he needs it.” She softened. “Thank you again for the gift. It’s absolutely lovely.”

            “Yes, thank you, beggar boy.” Raheed reached up and ruffled Asan’s hair. Asan whined and batted him away, though his grin brightened. He offered them both one more quick bow before stepping away.

            “I think he drew you more handsome,” Leyla said in his ear, then yelped when Raheed pinched her side. She giggled and jabbed him back with her elbow.

            Raheed would have liked the night to go quicker by downing more wine, but he knew he had to be in top form, so he resisted the urge. Instead he tolerated Leyla’s family, which included taking no offense when they scorned him. He held a brief conversation with Dasaf, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant, not when Dasaf once again threatened to tie him behind his camel and drag him through the desert if he hurt his sister-in-law.

            “I could say the same of my servant,” Raheed told Dasaf.

            “He’s not your servant anymore.”

            “Alright. He’s still my friend, and I want what’s best for him.”

            “You take care of my sister and I’ll take care of your friend.”

            Raheed had to accept that. He still didn’t approve of Asan’s taste in men, but at least this meant Asan could move on and find happiness beyond Raheed. When Raheed spotted Asan with Dasaf, he looked content, and so Raheed forced himself to accept their strange bond.

            A bell was rung, and the hall fell into silence. Leyla had explained this moment to him: the bell meant the end of a celebration and the beginning of a marriage. Both the bride and groom’s fathers were expected to take them to their new bedchamber, but Dasaf stood in for Leyla’s father and no one had volunteered to take Raheed’s father’s place. Raheed had shamelessly frequented brothels for years, but he’d never felt so uncomfortable as when the whole party watched them cross the room and step into the hallway, where Dasaf was waiting.

            “This is when I impart you lasting wisdom,” Dasaf told Leyla. “But I’m sure you don’t want it.”

            Leyla yawned. “Mostly I just want to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

            Dasaf snorted, but shrugged and led them down the hallway in awkward silence. Raheed felt Leyla’s hand slip into his, which helped return some of his old confidence. He’d never been expected to impress a woman for more than the hour he paid her for, so he struggled under the pressure he faced. Yet for Leyla, he imagined he was capable of it.

            They headed to Leyla’s room, which they now would both share. Traditionally the bride moved into the husband’s house, but both of them had agreed that Raheed’s tiny bedchamber was not fit for a couple or any burgeoning family. Raheed would have liked to buy a house, but he supposed he’d have to work a decade to conjure the funds for _that_ , especially if he wanted anything fine enough for a woman of Leyla’s breeding.

            “Alright,” Dasaf said, stopping outside of Leyla’s door. He jabbed a finger into Raheed’s chest. “Remember what I said.”

            “Dasaf,” Leyla admonished, shoving his hand away. “Don’t be rude.”

            Dasaf said nothing more, but he managed to fit in one parting glare at Raheed before walking away. This left them gloriously alone for the first time in two weeks, and Raheed’s delight returned.

            “Are you sure I don’t have to sacrifice any more goats before I’m finally allowed in this room?” Raheed asked.

            “Unless that’s some Mulli marriage ritual I don’t know about.”

            “I don’t know much about Mulli marriage rituals.” Raheed pushed open the door and gestured her inside. “After you.”

            She stepped into the room just moments before he did, and he closed the door behind them. After a whole night of laughter, prayer, and music, the quiet was unnerving. Leyla crossed the room and lit a few lamps, providing more light to see by. Her jewelry and the flat coins that hung from her veil and drapery flickered as the flames did, and Raheed’s throat thickened at the sight. He had bought gifts, but otherwise he had not paid a cent for this—the first and only time in his life. His usual tenacity regarding women faded, replaced by a powerful desire to prove himself.

            “Are you nervous?” he asked.

            “A bit,” Leyla admitted as she pulled off her veil, letting it flutter to the floor. “Excited too.”

            Raheed was glad to hear it. Many men liked their whores timid, but Raheed had always avoided those. Innocence had never been particularly alluring to him, and the last thing he wanted was his new wife to fear him.

            Wife. Leyla was his _wife_. He’d still need to get used to the idea.

            Raheed crossed the room and sat down on the sleeping mat, which was cushioned by at least five thick blankets and a mountain of pillows. For a moment it reminded him of Malli’s room, with its tassels and silk, all crafted in hopes that a man might stay longer and spend more money. Yet as he leaned back and watched Leyla move across the room, he decided it was nothing like Malli’s room at all.

            “So how does one usually start this?” Leyla asked, her voice betrayed by a hint of anxiety.

            “I could undress,” Raheed offered. “But I’m afraid you’ve already seen _me_ naked.”

            Leyla smiled. “Thin, bloody, dirty, and suffering from a festering infection, but yes.”

            “Ah, well, once you’ve seen one male body you’ve seen them all.” He folded his legs in front of him. “I’d like to see you.”

            Leyla reached down and toyed with a button at her throat, but then her eyes darted back to Raheed. “Must you watch so intently?”

            Raheed didn’t budge an inch. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

            Leyla’s fingers returned to the button, but once more she stalled. What confidence she’d shown before wavered, and Raheed could see the indecision in her eyes.

            “What’s wrong?” he asked, pushing himself to a stand. “I thought you were excited.”

            “I _am_. But . . .” Leyla rubbed her forehead. “Just some things Malika said.”

            “What did Malika say?”

            “I know it will be different, but . . .” Leyla inhaled sharply, and her exhale was shaky. “I need your reassurance.”

            Raheed took her hands and kissed her fingers before grasping each side of her neck and running his thumbs along her jawline. “Reassurance for what?”     

            “Does it hurt?” Leyla asked softly.

            “Well.” Raheed rolled his tongue against his cheek. “I’m not a woman, so I suppose I’m not a scholar on the subject. But I imagine it _can_ hurt.” When Leyla’s expression clouded over, Raheed strengthened his grip. “But it _won’t_ , not with me.”

            “You’ve known so many women,” Leyla whispered. “I don’t want to sound like an insecure little girl, but—”       

            “To be honest, Leyla, I only remember _two_ of the whores I’ve been with. I only remember them because they taught me very valuable lessons, lessons that have prepared me for this moment with you.”

            Leyla nodded, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “I trust you.”

            Raheed tilted her face up and kissed her, moments before she slipped her arms around his waist and squeezed him. As her mouth grew hungrier, Raheed made short work of the buttons and sash keeping her caftan together. At first he took care not to tear or tangle anything, but by the time he’d gotten to the knotted sash at her waist, his hands were clumsy with desire. He allowed her the space and time to remove the caftan herself, but his gaze didn’t falter as she pulled the garment over her head, leaving only a thin white shift beneath. After dropping her caftan at her feet, her hands went to the pin on his cloak. She removed his clothing article by article with such curiosity that it only excited him more. No one had ever really been interested in _him_. He hadn’t thought it mattered, but now he realized how much it did. As he kissed Leyla, held her, and watched her disrobe him, it seemed every thought was interrupted with the realization of how much he loved her.

            Raheed took hold of her hips and steered her to the bed. Once he lounged across it, Leyla followed him down, seating herself on his legs and digging her fingers into his hair. In the lamplight he could see the shadow of her body beneath the thin material of her shift, and he knew there was no way she’d get him out of his trousers in time. After gently pushing her aside, he removed what little clothing he had left, then dragged her back on top of him. She had lost interest in kissing him as her eyes drifted downward.

            “I’ve never . . .” She giggled nervously. “I’ve never seen it look like _that_.”

            “Surprising, because it gets like that nearly any time I’m with you.”

            Leyla laughed again, though he could tell it source was more shock than humor. Afraid that she might slip back toward fear, Raheed wrapped an arm around her waist and flipped them so that Leyla was on her back with Raheed hovering over her. Then he dove his hands under her shift and pulled it over her head with one clean sweep of his arm, leaving them both bare at last.

            Leyla’s physique was lean yet soft, her hips and thighs carrying most of the extra flesh. Her shoulders were narrow, her breasts small and pointed, her stomach marked with an odd crescent-shaped scar just above her belly button. Raheed wanted to touch every inch of its perfection.

            “Raheed?” Leyla murmured, squirming with discomfort, and he realized how long he must have been looking at her.

            “Oh, Leyla,” Raheed breathed before surging forward and pressing his mouth against hers with such force that she let out a muffled yelp of surprise. Her wits slowly returned to her, and soon they were wrapped around one another like cloaks, Raheed’s hands using the distraction to explore anything he had not seen. As one of Leyla’s thighs climbed his, Raheed stole the opportunity to slip his hand between the apex of her legs. A short abortive gasp fell from her lips, and her fingers tensed around his shoulder blades. Raheed paused, waiting for her approval.

            “Leyla?” he whispered, kissing both of her fluttering eyelids.

            One shaking hand left his shoulder blade and joined his between her legs. She provided the briefest touch of encouragement before pulling away, providing him the permission to dig his fingers deeper. He returned to kissing her, but Leyla was far more distracted now, trying to roll her hips against Raheed’s hand. She used one hand to fist Raheed’s hair while the other kept herself steady on the mat. Most of her movement was stilted and awkward, as if she weren’t quite sure what to do with all her limbs. Raheed was both amused and desirous beyond belief. For the first time, he would be the teacher. As much as he wanted to dig his face between her legs, he decided that it was trick best reserved for later.

            Finally he pulled his wet hand from inside her and shifted her hips. Her eyes flickered open, and he watched her apprehension reappear.

            “Don’t,” Raheed whispered as he leaned forward. “You trust me?”

            “Yes,” she replied in a tiny voice. Her features glimmered with a thin sheen of sweat.

            He kissed her slowly and softly until her body relaxed in his arms. His muscles quivered with preparation, but they sat dormant, waiting.

            “I’m ready,” Leyla said, and only later did Raheed realize she’d said it in Hahnar. Raheed then pushed inside of her, senses perked in hopes of catching any pleasure or discomfort. Her grip on his shoulders was so tense that her nails bit into his skin, but she did not ask him to stop or even slow, so he trusted his own instincts. Once he could sink no further, he lifted his gaze to hers. All she did was nod, but it was all he needed.

 

* * *

 

            After collapsing into a heap beside one another, Raheed dragged a blanket over them both to protect their cooling bodies from the night’s chill. Raheed needed something to drink, but he also didn’t want to rise, so he ignored his thirst and lifted an arm as Leyla pressed her cheek against his chest. After a long silence, she twisted around and faced him, running a finger lazily through his patch of chest hair.

            “Well?” Raheed asked, the first time they’d talked since their consummation had began.

            Leyla’s smile was tired but sincere. “I love you.”

            Raheed chuckled, running a thumb along the soft skin just below her eye. “I love you too.”

            She perched herself on her elbows and leaned forward to kiss him. When the kiss ended, she wrapped her arms around his torso and drifted to sleep with her face pressed into the crook of his neck. It was the first time he’d ever slept in the same bed as a woman, and he decided that there was a reason the Mulli army never allowed such attachments. Happy men were terrible soldiers.

           

* * *

 

            It was late, and Asan had a bit too much wine. Perhaps Dasaf had the eyes of a cat, because he navigated the darkness as if it were daylight. Asan kept Dasaf’s cloak clutched in one fist to guide him along until they reached Dasaf’s bedchamber. Once inside, Dasaf lit a single lamp before continuing on into the garden. Yet instead of moving toward the alcove, Dasaf went instead to the orange tree and shoved a foot in the groin of two branches.

            “Dasaf?” Asan asked in confusion.

            Dasaf might have offered a reply, but he was facing opposite Asan so Asan could not see it. The tree wobbled under Dasaf’s weight, but he was able to scale a branch until he could reach the roof. Once out of the tree, he twisted around, swinging his legs over the edge of the roof and offering Asan a hand.

            Asan did not have pleasant memories of the last time he climbed this tree, but he had managed then with newly broken fingers, so perhaps he could attempt again now. When he was within Dasaf’s reach, Dasaf grasped his wrist, careful of Asan’s mending bones. Between the both of them, Asan was able to clamber up beside Dasaf onto the moldy tiles of the roof that separated Dasaf’s garden from Malika’s.

            “What is this?” Asan asked, leaning in close so he could see Dasaf’s reply.

            “Sometimes I come up here to star gaze,” Dasaf said. “The sky has always calmed me, and I think I need a bit of its comfort tonight.”

            Asan craned his head back and looked up toward the heavens. Asan remembered many nights spent under this sky when he was a beggar boy. The stars and the camels were the only things that ever made him feel like life was worth living. During the rare cloudy nights in Ayllamal, Asan had felt a bit lost without their light.

            Dasaf took one of Asan’s hand and pressed his mouth to Asan’s knuckles. Asan wrapped his free arm around his legs and leaned his head on Dasaf’s shoulder. This was how they sat for a long time, the sort of still moment Asan appreciated more and more as he aged. It made him think of Elder Hassad, the nights they’d spend together pouring over manuscripts and scrolls, both so involved in their work that conversation would have seemed inappropriate. Asan wondered what Elder Hassad might think of him now. Would he be proud? Surely he wouldn’t approve of Asan’s relationship with Dasaf, but perhaps he’d find value in what Asan had accomplished. Asan had shed the shame and fear that plagued him for years, and he finally felt like he had a strong foundation to build upon.

            Dasaf’s shoulder nudged Asan’s. Asan lifted his head to face him.

            “The stars make me think of you,” Dasaf said.

            “Why?”

            “What is truly amazing about the stars is that they are the most beautiful thing in the world and yet they don’t make a sound. Their silence does not detract from the wonder we feel when we look at them, and they are something you and I can enjoy in the exact same way.” Dasaf’s smile nearly glowed in the dark.

            Asan kissed him quickly and with passion, but the urgency was absent. What else was there to accomplish but this? He could stay up here the rest of his life and he wouldn’t regret a moment.

            “Elo . . . el . . . what is this?”

            Dasaf chuckled, the tip of his nose drawing a line from Asan’s cheek to his temple. He pulled back enough to say, “Eloquent, love.”

            “Yes, this. You _eloquent_.”

            “Some say I’m even charming.”

            Asan nudged him in the side and shook his head. “ _Nah_.”

            Dasaf laughed. “It’s true! It’s a wicked rumor that goes around.”

            “No believe rumors.”

            Dasaf dug his face into Asan’s shoulder, grinning. Eventually he stilled, then pressed another kiss to Asan’s bicep before drawing away. Asan wasn’t sure what to do with the adoration in Dasaf’s eyes, so he just lifted a hand and ran his fingers along the tiny hairs growing at the base of Dasaf’s skull. After kissing the protruding veins in Asan’s wrist, Dasaf turned back to a sky freckled with tiny pinpricks of distant light.

            “What are your plans now, Asan?” Dasaf finally asked. “After all you’ve done, I don’t feel right asking you to serve.”

            “Learn Hahnar. Be scribe.”

            “That might take some time.”

            Asan shrugged. “You kick me out?”

            Dasaf chuckled. “I should. You’re a rather significant distraction.” He sobered. “About Raheed—”

            Asan pressed a finger against Dasaf’s lips. “No more worry about Raheed.”

            “Do you still love him?” Dasaf asked, gently pushing Asan’s hand away.

            “Yes,” Asan replied. “Of course. Raheed friend, brother. But was only dream, Dasaf. Some dreams true. Raheed dream, not so much.” Asan slid closer. “I dream of you before I know.”

            “What does that mean?”

            Asan reached out and tapped the scorpion pin on Dasaf’s breast. “I dream of Khamal scorpion before I even know what is. God or fate bring me here to you. Is right. Is destiny.”

            “I’m not sure if I believe in destiny.”

            “Then believe in me.” Asan took Dasaf’s chin in his hand and kissed his mouth. “I love you. No longer you say stupid things about Raheed.”

            Some mirth touched Dasaf’s mouth before he curled his arms around Asan, drawing him close. “Promise me you’ll always be so blunt.”

            “Always.”

            Dasaf pushed hair off of Asan’s forehead, his eyes flickering across his face as if attempting to memorize it. The column of his throat twitched as he swallowed. “I do love you, Asan. That frightens me. I thought—well, when Raheed told me about how the Mullis had taken you prisoner, how they’d kill you if he didn’t return with a surrender . . .” Dasaf shook his head. “I don’t wish that despair upon even the most horrid of my enemies.”

            “No more think about this. Not good or useful.”

            “I know. I . . .” Dasaf sighed. “I am trying very hard to escape this dark place where my mind dwells lately. It is not easy.” His eyes met Asan. “I need your strength and bravery more than ever.”

            Asan would have fought him on the _bravery_ point, but he let it go. Maybe he _was_ brave. He had been told that only warriors were brave, that servants’ only traits were ones of submission and humility. Yet there was more to Asan, and he would no longer deny that in fear of offending a weaker man.    

            Asan grasped Dasaf’s hand and nodded. As their bodies pressed against one another for warmth, they both leaned back at once and returned their gazes toward the stars. Maybe providence _had_ brought Asan here, or maybe it was nothing more than luck. Either way, he’d never know. He didn’t wonder too much about it, nor did he look for answers. Sometimes, like the stars, beautiful and silent mystery was good enough.

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a "fiver years later" epilogue after this, not because it really adds anything but because I wanted to do it. XD It's been a wild ride, folks. :)
> 
> I know Dasaf is all about silent stargazing, but [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buhjrHEGv-Q) is the best one to stargaze by.


	43. Epilogue: Five Years Later

 

            After a week of oppressive heat, the sky today promised some afternoon rains, a blessing from God for sure. Dasaf had risen early for his morning patrols, and he looked forward to nothing more than a nap and a bath. Perhaps by the time he finished with both the rain would arrive, and he’d spend a few moments just standing in the downpour, enjoying the respite from the sun.

            Dasaf headed toward his bedchamber when loud angry voices emanated through his nephew’s door. One belonged to Altaf, the other to his mother.

            “ _Shit_ ,” Dasaf muttered, twisting on his heel. The nap would have to wait; escaping was more important.

            Unfortunately, the door slammed open before he could dart away, and Malika charged out, her face twisted with rage.

            “ _You_ talk to him!” she snapped at Dasaf. Without bothering to elaborate, she rounded the corner and vanished from view.

            Slowly Dasaf looked over his shoulder. Altaf stood in the doorway glowering, filling Dasaf with regret that he hadn’t managed to get away sooner.

            “What is this all about then?” Dasaf asked.

            “Mother said the Hahnars have invited us to Bhajar.”

            “A messenger came yesterday.”

            “Why was I not informed?” Altaf snapped. Dear God, with a bit more height and a beard he was the spitting image of his father, which explained why Dasaf made pains to avoid him when his foul moods struck. Manhood had brought Altaf many things, but a temper was the most flagrant.

            “We haven’t even discussed it, Altaf. It will be a concern later. There’s no way a trip can be made any time soon, not with your coronation.”

            “Mother says I won’t be allowed to go.”

            Dasaf sighed. It was as if Malika _wanted_ a fight. “Now is not the time to worry about such things.”

            “I’m not a child, so don’t talk to me like one.”

            Dasaf saw no point in a coronation anymore. With the way Altaf spoke to him, he might as well have been Sumas already. “Look. I have been on patrols. I am exhausted. I welcome discussion on this matter later, but for now—”

            “I want to go to Bhajar. I need to represent Khamal to the Hahnars beyond the mountain.”

            “The last time the Sumas went to Bhajar, he ended up dead,” Dasaf retorted. “If your mother does not want you to go, it’s for good reason.”

            “So you side with her then.”

            “Altaf, I have already told you. I will not discuss this with you now in the hallway.”

            “Why not? I am to be Sumas in two days. I would like to be treated like one.”

            “You are not Sumas _yet_. When you are, you can boss me about all you like. For now, I elect to abandon this conversation and return to it later.”

            “You always do this. For a man who saved a city from siege, you fear the slightest conflict.”

            “Honestly, Altaf, I will battle a Mulli any day if it means avoiding another one of these circular altercations you and your mother enjoy so much.”

            “You avoid it because you agree with Mother. If you agreed with me, you would not fear the argument.”

            Dasaf knew they’d spend the next twenty minutes arguing over whether or not they should be arguing, so he sighed and decided to give in. “I do not think you should go to Bhajar.”

            “Why not? As Sumas—”

            “—your life is more valuable any anyone else’s. The road to Bhajar is not without danger. If the Hahnars want to meet you so much, then they will come here instead.”

            “So I can never leave Khamal? How am I to learn anything about the outside world if I’m trapped in here like a prisoner?”

            “It is unfortunately a burden the Sumas carries. Once you father an heir, then we may revisit the option. As for now, I will travel in your stead to Bhajar.”

            “The Hahnars will see me as weak, hiding in my alcazar.”

            “Let the Hahnars think what they like. They already assume a great many terrible things about us .”

            “A weak Sumas means a weak Khamal! We cannot allow the Hahnars to think us feeble, not when Mulli forces dwindle. Perhaps they will find us an easy target.”

            “They will not assume Khamal is weak because a young Sumas does not pay them a visit.”

            “Says you! You’ve never been to Bhajar either.”

            “Altaf, is this about Khamal or is this your desire to explore the world? I know what it’s like to be a young man, to long for something different, something _new_ —”

            “I am not a spoiled child looking for a vacation, Uncle.”

            Dasaf sighed. Had he been this difficult at Altaf’s age?  He certainly remembered wanting to get out, to visit Bhajar or perhaps a few cities beyond, a curiosity that he’d never been able to fulfill, especially after his brother’s death. How could he communicate this with Altaf without sounding condescending?

            “You cannot go,” Dasaf said. “This is not up for debate. Once you sire an heir, then we will revisit the discussion. You should not be worrying about such things right now, not when there are more pressing matters. I know you want to fight me about this, but for once try to accept your mother’s wisdom and move on.”

            “My mother is overprotective and scared, not wise.”

            “I don’t think your mother is scared of anything.” Dasaf brushed some sand off of his cloak. “We are done talking about this.”

            “Uncle—”

            “In two days, Altaf, you can yell at me _all you like_. For now, you will attend your lessons and think no more of it.”

            Altaf opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. With a glare of pure resentment, he dashed around Dasaf and down the hallway. Dasaf let out a heavy sigh and slipped a hand under his keffiyeh, allowing some airflow to his sweating scalp. He wondered if all young men were this way or only the offspring of Haadi. Forget the Scorpion. Altaf reminded Dasaf more of a viper. Just one more reason he was glad he had no children or wife—being an uncle was difficult enough.

 

* * *

 

            A few raindrops splattered on Asan’s head. He lifted his eyes to the sky and watched several storm clouds drift closer, the first in two months. He pushed himself off the ground and brushed the dirt off of his clothing before he called Treasure and her two playmates. Treasure was the quickest to obey, trailing a giggling Jala and Siyah behind her.

            _It’s going to rain_! Jala signed to him in excitement. _Can I play in the rain_?

            _Your mother might not like that_ , Asan replied with a smile.

            “Uncle Asan.” Siyah stretched her hands toward him, a silent command less complex than his gestured speech but clear nonetheless. He heaved the toddler into his arms, then waved to Jala.

            _I want to stay in the garden_!

            With his hands occupied with Siyah, Asan spoke instead, “No, not today. Come now.”

            Jala pouted, balling her fists by her sides. He stared her down until she gave in, trotting quickly along the garden path to catch up with him. Siyah tucked her face into the hollow of Asan’s neck, her soft curls tickling the underside of his jaw. Asan often noted that while Jala shared her mother’s physical features, she had her father’s stubborn and irascible nature. Even at two, Siyah was a lamb compared to Jala’s lion.

            Treasure trotted at Asan’s heel while Jala dragged her feet behind him, glaring at him when he looked over his shoulder at her. She only brightened when a familiar figure appeared at the other end of the hall, surrounded by a group of advisors and soldiers.

            “Papa!” She darted past Asan and ran to Raheed, who laughed and swooped her up into his arms. He tapped a finger against his cheek, and she gave him a smitten kiss. “Papa, I wanted to play in the rain but Asan wouldn’t let me!”

            “How dare he,” Raheed joked before throwing an amused look at Asan. Siyah squirmed in Asan’s arms, so he released her. In her usual wobbling stride, she approached Raheed as well, grasping onto his trousers and pulling, another silent request to be picked up.

            “I can’t hold you both. Hang on.” Raheed lowered Jala to the ground, pressing a kiss to her shorn head before picking up Siyah. To Asan he said, “What can I say, girls love me.”

            The advisors and soldiers moved away, leaving Asan and Raheed alone with the children. The garden paths on either side of the covered walkway were spotted with scattered raindrops.

            “Can I play in the rain?” Jala asked.

            “It’s not even raining yet.”

            “It is! Just a little bit!”  
            “Hmm, you just had a bath this morning. If you get dirty—”

            “I won’t get dirty.”

            Raheed lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I know you, Jala. That’s a bold-faced lie you’re telling.”

            Jala folded her hands behind her back, becoming the perfect picture of dignity and grace. For a four-year-old, she was extraordinarily precocious. “I’m not a liar.”

            “Heh, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

            “Papa, _please_?” She grabbed a handful of his long caftan and tugged. “ _Please_?”

            “If you get dirty, you’ll be explaining yourself to your mother.”

            “I won’t get dirty.”

            Raheed sighed in defeat. For years now he’d been a leader and a commander, and yet all it took was some begging from a little girl to bow his will. Asan considered it both sweet and pathetic at once, as Asan certainly had no trouble telling the girls no.

            “Very well—”

            Jala squealed in delight and ran out into the garden.

            “But stay in my sight!” Raheed called after her, most likely ignored as Jala twirled in circles and opened her mouth to catch the raindrops now falling with more regularity.

            “I hope I’m dead before she’s a teenager,” Raheed muttered. “Then she’ll be Leyla’s problem.”

            Asan pinched his arm, and Raheed yelp quickly transformed into a laugh.

            “I’m _joking,_ of course. Luckily there will always be Siyah.” Raheed turned his head and kissed Siyah’s forehead. “She keeps me sane.”

            Siyah dug her face deeper into Raheed’s neck as she raised her thumb to suck. Raheed would never admit to favoritism, but he’d always doted on Siyah more than Jala. Not only was she far more docile, but she shared her father’s looks, from her loose curls to her wide, dark eyes rimmed with thick lashes. She had also been a difficult delivery, born weeks too early and so feeble that many didn’t think she’d live. Luckily she had a brilliant healer for a mother and a stubborn warrior for a father, neither of whom were interested in surrender.

            Treasure took off after Jala and ran in wide circles around her, barking. The palm trees swayed in the gathering wind, signaling malevolent weather ahead.

            _How is Leyla feeling_? Asan asked.

            “Still nauseous from time to time. Last night I caught her up in the middle of the night because she’d gone to the kitchens for some olives and yogurt.” He rolled his eyes. “I no longer ask any questions.”

            Asan chuckled. _Are you hoping for a boy this time_?

            “I’ve learned mischief makers come in both male and female bodies.” He jerked his head at Jala, who was running up and down the garden path with Treasure loping at her heels.

            _She got that from you_ , Asan said.

            “I make no claims to any particular trait of Jala’s.”

            Asan spotted Leyla making her way down the hall, her loose pastel robes fluttering behind her. In her arms she carried a heavy box full of remedies, and Asan rushed to help her.

            “I’m fine,” she insisted, but she gave Asan the box anyway.

            “Raheed won’t help you?” Asan asked, throwing a chiding look at Raheed.

            “He used to help back before the first child,” Leyla said, pulling at her sleeves to smooth the wrinkles. She offered her arms to Siyah, but Siyah ducked her face back into Raheed’s neck.

            “By now I know you can handle it,” Raheed replied, then smirked. “Siyah has chosen her side.”

            “Where is Ja—” Leyla looked past Asan’s shoulder. “What is she doing running around in the rain?! Jala! Jala, what are you doing, you crazy child!”

            By now the rain had started falling so hard it was difficult to see more than a few strides away. Leyla darted out into the downpour to snatch up a frolicking Jala, who fought her mother’s grip until they were under the canopy of the covered walkway.

            “Now you are soaking wet.” Leyla knelt in front of Jala and began to squeeze at her dripping sleeves.

            “It was so much fun, Mama! I want it to rain like this every day.”  
            “We’d live in a much different world if it did.” Leyla stood, running a hand along Jala’s head and flicking off the water it collected. “It is time for your nap anyway. I came down here to get you after your father’s meeting. Has Asan been looking after you?”

            “Yes, Mama.”

            Leyla stood and took her daughter’s hand. “Well, Asan, perhaps it’s time to relieve you of your duties. I think Raheed and I can handle them from here, God help us all.”

            “I’m hungry,” Jala whined, tugging on her mother’s caftan. “Mama? I’m _hungry_.”

            “Yes, yes. In a moment.” Leyla gave Asan a tired smile and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you, Asan.”

            “It was not a problem,” Asan replied, nodding his head gracefully. “I hope you feel better soon.”

            “The only way I will feel better is when _this little monster_ —” She bent down and grasped Jala’s shoulders, shaking her slightly, “—is tucked away and asleep.”

            “I’m not tired. I won’t go to sleep.”

            Leyla sighed, perhaps deciding that arguing was not going to get her anywhere.

            Asan slid his hands up into his sleeves and bowed slightly. “I will see you both at dinner.”

            With children in hand, Raheed and Leyla stepped through a horseshoe arch and into the alcazar, leaving Asan alone in the covered walkway.

 

* * *

 

            The entire city of Khamal had turned out to watch the procession from the alcazar to the temple on Altaf’s coronation day. Dasaf and Altaf rode abreast at the front of the parade, their horses so covered in woven flowers and silk tassels that it was a wonder they could see at all. Just behind them rode Malika on a sleek black gelding, and behind her the Jhana family, Dasaf’s advisors, and a troop of alcazar guards. Men with ouds and riks marched single file on either side of them, playing to the beat of hooves striking cobblestone. Meanwhile, onlookers tossed flowers and waved flags as they called out to Altaf and Dasaf their blessings. Dasaf smiled and nodded in his best effort to appear regal, but Altaf seemed to be having more difficulty with it, and Dasaf knew why. Dasaf, after all, was going to relieve himself of the largest burden he’d ever carried today, and Altaf was going to take it from him. He had been raised his whole life for this day, and yet Dasaf wondered how prepared he was for it. He certainly looked the part in his green and gold cape draped over both his shoulders and the rump of his dappled stallion. Even at eighteen, his beard was already halfway full, and his posture was so straight he could have been carved from marble. Dasaf wished to comfort him, but he wondered if Altaf would even accept it. As he took on more responsibilities in the alcazar, his moods turned darker, and Dasaf prayed every night that the direction he traveled was not the same as Haadi’s.

            Once free of the narrow streets, the procession emptied into the temple plaza. The High Khalkar came toward them with arms raised, his sleeves so long they dragged on the ground behind him. Once a carpet was rolled out, Dasaf and Altaf both dismounted. The crowds around them bowed in respect, and the horses were taken away. On foot, Dasaf and Altaf entered the temple, the shouting masses at their backs.

            Slowly the royal party filtered into the temple as Dasaf and Altaf knelt before the Scorpion Stone. The High Khalkar stood above both of them, hands held toward the heavens, deep in prayer. An underling came forward and draped a heavy cloak across Dasaf’s shoulders and then, after the High Khalkis’s command, transferred it to Altaf. There was a great deal of bowing and praying and sipping from a goblet filled with water taken from the temple spring. After an hour’s worth of ceremony and prayer, Altaf was asked to rise. Dasaf stayed on his knees, then bowed with the rest when Altaf was announced as Sumas Darim Altaf, son of Darim Haadi and Jhana Malika, grandson of Darim Zhad and father of the Khamal nation.

            Events passed in a flurry of intense color and sound. After leaving the temple, they were whisked back into the plaza, where men had already set up spits to cook the mutton, goat, and birds that had been slaughtered for the coronation. Blankets and mats were laid out all across the plaza, and little girls carrying baskets of flowers ran around presenting everyone with blossoms. One shyly approached Altaf, bowed, and handed him several pink flowers, some of their petals damaged from her overzealous grip. Nevertheless, Altaf bent low in acknowledgement and took the offering.

            “Thank you, _shuman_ ,” he said with a smile.

            She blushed wildly and scampered away to her mother, who laughed and kissed her head.

            Leyla took the flowers from Altaf and folded their stems into the pin he wore at his breast. “You already have one admirer, it seems.”

            The royal party was led to a platform that was erected to the side of the plaza, heavily cushioned and furbished with a mountain of pillows for their comfort. Altaf sat in the center with Dasaf at his right and Malika at his left. When Altaf fidgeted under the weight of his cloak, Malika chided him. Fearing an argument between them, Dasaf asked that the Khamal people come forward to express their congratulations. It was a good chance for Altaf to begin a relationship with those he governed.

            “Honored Sumas, we look forward to your rule,” said one old man who struggled to bow on weak legs. Altaf held up a hand to stop him, so the man straightened with a wince.

            “Katar, did any of these goats come from your stock?”

            Katar blinked in bewilderment before he grinned wide, exposing the three teeth left in his mouth. “You remember my name, Sumas?”

            “My uncle introduced me to you once. You provide the goats for the Festival of Honey every year.”

            Katar turned to the woman behind him, who might have been a daughter or wife. “He remembers my name, Habil!” He lowered his head fervently in Altaf’s direction. “May God bless you a thousand times, Honored Sumas.”

            Altaf just nodded, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the lavish praise. More came forward after Katar, so many that it was impossible to keep track of them all. It was odd to see them all face Altaf before Dasaf, but it filled Dasaf with relief. Maybe now he would not be analyzed and picked apart by everyone with an opinion, and maybe they’d finally stop pestering him about marriage. He didn’t hold much hope about _that_ one, since it had become a favorite pastime of every advisor and family member, even though most of them knew about Asan and decided not to acknowledge it. That was the worst of it really—the way they all hid it, some secret shame no one wanted to discuss. He’d rather they criticize him for it, just so he could say _Asan and I_ out loud. As it was, only Leyla, Raheed, and occasionally Malika mentioned it to him.

            By the time the festivities died down, it was well past midnight. The soldiers escorted both Dasaf and Altaf to their horses, as most of their family and advisors had already drifted back home. Only Raheed remained, dressed in full military regalia, the only _faskii_ who was. By now most had accepted his presence, even if for some it was grudging. No matter what the others thought, he was a good soldier, a decent father, and a passable husband, though Leyla might say differently. Altaf had taken to him much easier than most, and now that Raheed was Altaf’s advisor instead, at least that was one transition that would go smoothly.

            “Well, Altaf, how do you feel?” Dasaf asked as they navigated the dark streets where the occasional drunken song or shrieking laugh could be heard. “Or should I call you Sumas Darim Altaf now?”

            Altaf did not reply immediately. When he did, his tone was soft and exhausted. “I just want to go to sleep, Uncle.”

            “I suppose you should get rest. The Matij arrive in two weeks with your bride-to-be.”

            “Thanks for reminding me, _Uncle_ ,” Altaf muttered darkly. “Surely no one has been doing so for the past six months.”

            “Why such the foul mood? Did you not enjoy the festivities?”

            “The festivities were fine.”

            Dasaf sighed and glanced at Raheed, who shrugged.

            “We don’t have to talk if you don’t like. But I thought you might be in need of some advice.”

            “From you? Advice about what? What do you know about how I feel? Were you married two weeks after you became Sumas? Did you spend your whole life being groomed to be something you didn’t ask for? All you’ve done is skirt responsibility and then hand it off as quickly as you could manage, so don’t try to act like you know _anything_.” With that, Altaf dug his heels into his horse’s side and took off down the street, several alcazar guards galloping after him.

            Dasaf frowned and didn’t even bother to catch him.

            “Ah, to be eighteen again,” Raheed joked, nibbling on a candied date. “Wouldn’t live it again if you paid me.”

            “You really think this is just his age?”

            Raheed shrugged. “It could be many things. It’s not been easy for him.”

            “At least he _was_ groomed for this. The only reason I became Sumas was because my brother died. I was green and stupid.” Dasaf sighed. “Though he does have a point. Much of this is probably due to his upcoming wedding, and I can’t advise him on that front. There’s a reason I’ve avoided that particular duty.”

            “It’s not so bad,” Raheed said through a full mouth. When Dasaf looked at him, he replied, “True, it was not arranged.”

            “It seems like no matter what I say, it makes Altaf angry.”

            “Give him time, Dasaf. This is all very new to him, and tonight he realized just how many people are expecting him to be perfect. He is not as charming as you, and I fear that frustrates him.”

            “People don’t want charm. They want a Scorpion.”

            “And he is not that either. How many men has he fought and killed?”

            Dasaf rubbed his forehead in exhaustion. “One crippled Mulli.”

            “Exactly. You are not only charming, but you saved this city from the Mulli army. You’ve become your own legend, and that is what he has to compete with. I’ve heard some whisperings from those who doubt him because he spent that whole battle in a cot being tended to by his mother.”

            “He was paralyzed! And thirteen! What do they expect from him?”  
            “ _I_ know, Dasaf. But the truth and gossip are two very different things. People prefer your tale of valor and cunning, and Altaf knows that. He wants a way to prove himself, but no one will let him leave Khamal to do that.”

            “So that’s why he wants to go to Bhajar.”

            “I think he’d be willing to go _anywhere_ just to show his worth.”

            “We can’t let him leave, not until he has an heir.”

            “He’s not stupid, Dasaf. He knows that. But the heart wants what it wants, right? At his age, every man wants to carve himself a name and a story. I wanted to fight Hahnars and be a hero, but I just ended up traumatized and terrified for my life. A lesson I learned about war, I guess. But it was one I _had_ to learn. It was not something I could read about and accept.”

            Sometimes Raheed reminded Dasaf of why he’d made him an advisor in the first place.

            “When my brother died, I was in a similar position,” Dasaf said. “I had no trophies to prove my worth. Some even called me the Coddled King, as my mother was so protective of me.”

            “But you won the people over.”

            “In my own way—with charm. Haadi and my father had no sense of humor, and I suppose the people weren’t expecting me to be any different. Perhaps Altaf will have to find his own way to win the people’s affection.”

            “He is only eighteen. He will have the rest of his life.”

            “Have you spoken to him at all? It sounds like he may listen more to you.”

            “Do you think I’m crazy? I get yelled at enough between my wife, my children, and my sister-in-law.” Raheed chuckled, reaching forward to pat Ahmbra’s neck. “I think he’d prefer to hear it from you.”

            “Altaf has not felt favorably toward me as of late.”

            “He fights with you because he trusts you.”

            “Hmph.”

            Raheed reached out and patted his shoulder. “Give him a bit more time and try again. He’ll listen to you, even if he doesn’t show it. Parenting is all giving love and receiving very little back.”

           

* * *

 

            The lamp had burned so low that it made the words difficult to read, but Asan continued through his growing exhaustion, occasionally lifting a hand to rub at his eyes and keep himself awake. Hahnar script had been heavily influenced by Mulli missionaries, so it used the same alphabet as Aillic, but the tight spacing and odd angle made it far more difficult to read. From the few old texts Asan had rooted through in Khamal’s old library, it seemed the style was passed on from their ancient writing system, and it did no one any favors. But Asan had promised himself and others that he would become just as fluent in Hahnar as Aillic, which included literacy. Raheed’s Hahnar was still bounds ahead of Asan’s, probably because he could hear it spoken. Asan had only just mastered Aillic grammar, and speaking Hahnar, with its more guttural sounds and odd pitches, was proving to be near impossible. He could communicate in it, but he always reverted to Aillic when he could.

            The door swung open, jolting Asan from his frustration. Dasaf paused upon seeing Asan, then shut the door with his foot and tossed his cloak on the floor. Asan would chastise him for that later. Setting his book aside, he slid off the bed and moved across the room to Dasaf, who was pulling at the sash around his waist.

            “Were you at the ceremony?” Dasaf asked Asan as Asan pushed away Dasaf’s hands and untied the sash with much more efficiency.

            “Yes.”

            “I didn’t see you.”

            “I am not a _Darim_ or _Jhana_. I was near the back, with the rest of the commoners.” Asan peeled back Dasaf’s caftan, pushing it down past his shoulders and waist until it dropped to the floor.

            “Ah.” Dasaf grabbed Asan’s wrists, keeping him from removing his trousers. “What did you think?”  
            Asan pulled his hands away from Dasaf’s grip and said, _It was a lovely event_.

            _What did the others say about_ “Altaf,” Dasaf asked.

            _The others_?  
            _The people._

Asan shrugged. _Most of them were too busy eating to talk about Altaf. Why? Are you worried_?

            “I’m not. Altaf may be.”

            _The people care most about their families, that they are well fed and well rested. What worries the upper classes does not worry those below so much._

Dasaf sighed and pulled off his turban to run a hand over his head. “Haadi died when Altaf was only two, so I do feel like a father to Altaf. I want him to do well, and I want the Khamal people to love him as I do.”

            Asan smiled and kissed Dasaf lightly. “They will.”

            “I’m sorry.” Dasaf rested his hands on Asan’s hips. “It’s late, and you don’t want to hear this.”

            _I don’t_ hear _anything,_ Asan joked. _But I don’t mind_.

            _You are too gracious_. Dasaf slid a hand behind Asan’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss. The longer the kiss continued, the more tension Dasaf felt leave him. Sometimes he thought Asan wove magic spells with his hands, because Dasaf never left this room as stressed as he did when he entered it. They fought, of course—Asan was never one to hide an opinion—but no matter what, Asan was on his side. It also helped that they weren’t around each other constantly, so that every moment felt like a treat.

            “Alcove?” Asan asked.

            Dasaf nodded. “Alcove.” It was further away from the guard outside, who had sharp ears. By now he was well aware of who Asan was and what they did, but he always acted as if he had no clue, which Dasaf appreciated. The last thing he needed was shit from his guards.

           

* * *

 

            Just beyond the door, Raheed heard the shrill cry of a displeased Jala. From what he could ascertain, the cry was not directed toward the bedroom door, so perhaps Fasa had come to help with the children this morning. She was not a motherly figure, but she and Jala were perfectly matched when it came to pigheadedness, so they got along well enough.

            Raheed groaned and shoved his head back into his pillow. He was not prepared to greet the day just yet.

            “Raheed.”

            “What,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow.

            “What time did they say the Matij were arriving?”

            “I don’t know. I figure they’ll send out the cry when they do.” He waved a hand noncommittally.

            “Don’t you think you should rise _before_ that happens?”

            Perturbed, he lifted his head and turned to face Leyla, who was already sitting up and reaching for the robe she’d tossed to the side last night.

            “Why would I be needed anyway? What can I possibly _advise_ about regarding the Matij?”

            Leyla gave him a _look_ , something all good wives learned to wield with deadly accuracy. Was there some secret society of women who all congregated and taught one another how to use disappointment like a sword?

            “Ugh.” He dropped his head back into the pillow. “Give me a few minutes.”

            Leyla climbed out of bed and wrapped her robe around her, knotting it at the waist. “Sounds like Jala is . . .” She trailed off, then moaned. Raheed rolled over to face her just as she ran to the water basin and vomited.

            Sighing, Raheed kicked off the blankets around his legs and went to her, rubbing her back as she emptied her stomach. Once she finished, she inhaled sharply a few times before finally bowing her head and wiping the sweat from her brow.

            “Can I get something for you?” Raheed asked.

            “I would say _water_ , but it looks like I just threw up into our water.”

            “There’s a well nearby. I’ll bring back a bucket.” He kissed the top of her head, grabbed the water basin, and stood.  “Go back to bed.”

            “I’ll be fine!” she called at him as he stepped out of the room.

            Raheed dumped the contents of Leyla’s stomach into one of the garden gutters before using the water from the well to rinse it. He was ladling more water into the bin when something—or someone—tackled him from behind.

            “Rawr!” Jala cried. “I’m a tiger!”

            “A tiger? Anything but that!” He turned and reached down to grasp her behind the neck. “You can’t be a tiger, because tigers are _quiet_ when they hunt.”

            “Papa! Let go of me!” She hunched her shoulders around his hand, wriggling to escape. Instead he wrapped an arm around her waist and picked her off the ground, putting his mouth against her neck and blowing a loud _bttthp_. This time she laughed as she fought before finally escaping and darting down the path. Fasa appeared in the doorway, leaning over her thighs and gasping for breath.

            “There you are!” She straightened when she saw Raheed. “Your daughter has me running all over the alcazar looking for her.”

            “I’m a tiger!” Jala exclaimed, making claws with her hands.

            Fasa frowned. “Ah yes, a tiger who needs a bath.”

            Jala’s expression turned fearful. “I don’t want one.”

            Fasa held her arms akimbo. “We can’t have everything we want, can we?”

            “Tigers never take baths.”

            “Tigers live in the jungle and eat monkeys. Do you want to do that?”

            “Okay!”

            Raheed stepped away from the well and put a hand on Jala’s shoulder. “Jala, if you let Fasa give you a bath, I predict some candied dates for you in the future.”

            Jala’s eyes narrowed as she searched his face, looking for deceit. Finally she heaved the most world-weary sigh and held out a hand for Fasa to take. Barely concealing her triumph, Fasa grasped Jala’s hand and pulled her to her side.

            “You can’t bribe her into all good behavior,” Fasa warned.

            “For behavior that can’t be bribed, I’ll pass it onto Leyla.”

            Fasa chuckled and shook her head, leading Jala back into the alcazar. Raheed wondered who might be watching Siyah, but perhaps she was still asleep. He would check after bringing Leyla her water. Sliding the bucket handle into the crook of his elbow, he headed back to his bedchamber, where Leyla was still seated on the floor, her head cradled in a hand.

            “I feel more sick with this one,” Leyla said as he helped her take sips from the ladle. “It doesn’t put me at ease, Raheed.”

            “Maybe it’s another monster like Jala.”

            Leyla shook her head and bit her lip. Raheed reached over and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead.

            “You and the little one will be just fine.”

            “How can you know?”

            He shrugged. “A feeling.”

            “And your feeling supersedes my feeling?”

            “ _My_ feeling puts us both at ease, and right now that’s what you need to be.”            

            “After what happened with Siyah—”

            “Leyla, please.”

            “You are not listening to me! I have been a midwife for a hundred births. This is not just a _feeling_ for me. I am concerned.”

            This was not what Raheed needed so early in the morning. The Matij were arriving soon, bringing the new Suman with them, and Raheed would like to focus on that. Leyla saw so much sickness and death that she worried more than most, and Raheed tried not to put much weight in her words. He _couldn’t_. After watching Siyah teeter on the brink for weeks . . . he didn’t want to think about it. And he certainly didn’t want to consider what could happen to Leyla if something went horribly wrong.

            “You’ve only felt sick to your stomach. You haven’t been bleeding, have you?”

            “No.” Leyla sighed and stood on shaky legs, leaning on the arm Raheed offered her. “Just sickness and nightmares.”

            “You haven’t told me about any nightmares.”

            “You’d tell me I was being silly.”

            “I wouldn’t—” He stopped when she gave him the _look_ again. “I don’t think it’s silly. I just wish you wouldn’t take every irregularity as a sign of impending doom. That’s usually the father’s job, isn’t it?”

            To his credit, she smiled slightly at that. “Maybe I’m sick so much because it’s a boy. Boys are wretched little creatures.”

            Raheed kissed the side of her mouth with a chuckle. “Ah, well, you married one, didn’t you?”

            “Against my best interest, I suppose.”

            Outside, the low bellow of a horn broke through the morning birdsongs.

            “Shit.” Raheed scrambled to throw on some trousers and a presentable caftan. “Damn Matij are _early_.”

            “I will dress too. I heard Jala. Is she—”

            “Fasa is looking after her, but I thought checking on Siyah might be wise.”

            “I will do that. You’d best hurry to greet the Matij with the rest of the advisors.”

            “Alright.” Raheed draped a cloak over his shoulders before pressing one last hurried kiss to Leyla’s lips. “Hopefully I will see you and the children at breakfast.”

            The alcazar grew smaller as Raheed became more familiar with it, but it felt so large now when he had to cross the length of it in a matter of minutes. His hair was probably a mess, and he hadn’t thought to bring a turban or keffiyeh to hide it. Then again, he supposed unkempt hair wasn’t going to change any Matij opinions about him. He’d be lucky if they didn’t spit on him when they saw him wearing the Khamal insignia, and perhaps he’d be hard-pressed not to return the favor. After all, the Matij were famous for snatching up weak and injured Mulli soldiers to sell to the Hahnars beyond the mountain, where the young men would most likely meet a fate worse than death. Raheed felt no loyalty toward the Empire, but he still felt some affiliation with the _bhanak_ soldiers whose ranks he had once been a part of.

            A crowd had already gathered in the plaza when Raheed arrived, so his tardiness went without notice. At the front of the gathering sat Altaf on his horse, his stature as stiff as a nervous soldier’s. Dasaf mounted a horse that had been brought out to accommodate him, but no longer would he be the first to address the newcomers. That responsibility was now Altaf’s.

 

* * *

 

            Compared to the Matij numbers that had once flocked to the city for the Festival of Honey and the Festival of Milk, the forty men that now arrived seemed paltry. Jakil Nhasi rode in front, flanked by his best men, all riding bull camels wearing minimal decoration. This was not the leisurely parade as it had been before. Technically the Matij were still branded traitors, and Jakil Nhasi’s father rotted in his dungeon cell for his crimes. They had agreed to this arrangement only because they really had nothing to lose. Altaf was sure none of them cared about Kalila, and it did soothe the tensions that had been high for years. No one was really sure whether Altaf’s betrothal to Kalila was a political arrangement or reparations of war, least of all Altaf. But he had negotiated for this treaty, and it would be impossible to take it back now, even if he felt less ready for this today than he had when he’d first suggested it to his mother at thirteen. Back then he hadn’t a clue to how much pressure would be on him, how much others would expect perfection. Now he had to posture for his wife too, and a Matij woman to boot—as if they didn’t already think Khamal was weak, it’s “boy” Sumas a joke. Jakil Nhasi had probably already filled her head with lies, because by now it was clear he wasn’t much of an improvement upon his father. Altaf couldn’t wait until he and the Matij left. Perhaps without them around it might be easier to win Kalila’s favor.

            Kalila was easy to spot amongst the camels filling the plaza. She was the only woman in the group, and she was the only one wearing a heavy black veil over her head and face. She was ushered toward the back of the group, as if there were still some reason to protect her in what would soon be her new home.

            Jakil Nhasi’s camel lowered itself to the ground and allowed him to dismount. In a swirl of dusty clothing, he crossed the plaza and bowed at the waist toward Dasaf. Altaf’s teeth ground against one another at the slight.

            “Jakil Nhasi,” Altaf said curtly. “Welcome to Khamal. It has been a while, has it not?”

            Jakil Nhasi turned to Altaf but did not bother to bow, and Altaf knew why. The Matij did not bow to boys and untested men. Dasaf had fought in a battle and won while Jakil Nhasi’s father had crippled Altaf and rendered him useless. As much as Altaf wanted to throw them all out, he knew that would be an act of a petulant child, not a self-assured ruler. He swallowed his anger and put on a neutral expression.

            “How long will you be staying?” he asked. It was perhaps rude not to use _shuma_ or _Honored_ , but Altaf had no honorable thoughts about this man.

            “As long as the wedding takes.”

            “Then you will set up camp outside of our gates. Jakil Kalila is welcome to stay in the alcazar.”

            Jakil Nhasi curled a lip. “She will remain with her family until she is wed. There are strange men in the alcazar, and I do not trust them.”

            “There are no women in your party. My mother and her female family members will see to her and protect her.”  
            “I don’t see it as _protection_ when she is a _prisoner_.”

            “Perhaps you would allow Kalila to decide what she likes,” said the authoritative voice of his mother as she stepped through the Khamal soldiers who parted for her. “With me she would be safe, you can be certain of that. She will be my future daughter, and you do remember how I’ve protected my children before.” She sent a pointed look at Jakil Nhasi, a silent reminder that she had been the one to put a knife in his father.

            Jakil Nhasi glared at her a moment, then turned and snapped, “Kalila, get over here.”

            Kalila’s camel lowered itself to its knees, and Kalila scrambled off. Judging by her clumsy dismount, she did not ride camels often. She made a wide circle around the other men and came to a halt at her brother’s side, her hands folded in front of her and her head lowered.  
            “Your future mother-in-law wants you to stay here in the alcazar until you are wed. What do you think of that, eh?”

            “She is very gracious,” Kalila muttered.

            Jakil Nhasi rolled his eyes. “How very democratic of you.” His gaze hardened when he looked to Altaf. “No men will see her until she is wed. Prisoner she may be, she is still my sister, and it is my duty to protect her.”

            Altaf considered arguing the “prisoner” bit again, but decided a nod would suffice.

            “Kalila, you will go with the Suman. My men and I will set up camp outside the gates. I do have one request, seeing as I’m giving away my sister to strangers.”

            “What would this be?”

            “I would like to see my father.”

            Altaf glanced briefly at his uncle, who shrugged. Altaf would have liked a second opinion, but he feared looking indecisive in front of the Matij.

            “Very well,” he replied. “But my men will escort you there.”

            Jakil Nhasi performed a bow that might be considered sarcastic. “You are too kind.” At that, he spun around and barked orders at his men, whose camels began to filter out of the plaza.

            “Come with me, Kalila,” his mother said, drawing an arm around Kalila as she led her through the men that blocked her way. Altaf watched Kalila’s shoulders curl up around her ears, but his mother had a strong grip and a powerful presence. Even if men had been interested, they would have wilted under their Suman’s glare.

            Altaf exhaled so heavily that he slumped on his horse.

            “Well?” he asked his uncle. “How did I do?”

            Dasaf chuckled. “Much better than I would have.”

            “Jakil Nhasi thinks I am a fool.”

            Dasaf reached over and patted Altaf’s arm. “But he did as you asked, and _that_ is a sign of true power. I wouldn’t worry about it. The Matij have never felt much love for _any_ Khamal Hahnar, even your father and grandfather. You did well.”

            Altaf would have liked to believe him, but Dasaf was his uncle and quick to praise. He’d ask his mother later, because she was always the painfully honest one.

           

* * *

 

            _That is a nice bracelet_.

            Raheed looked down at the lumpy camelhair bracelet Asan pointed to. “Ah. Yes. Jala made it for me.”

            _How sweet_ , Asan replied with a smile. He reached over and plucked more clumps of hair from Nutmeg’s hide. _If I were better at sewing, I would use this to make her a doll_.

            Nutmeg reached around and ran her lips through Asan’s hair. He chuckled and scratched her under her chin, which she always enjoyed. Behind him, Asan saw Raheed straighten and look over his shoulder.

            “What is it?” Asan asked.

            “I believe we have company.” Raheed leaned past another camel to see a figure heading down to the paddock, dressed much too fine to be a soldier or servant. Asan had to peer through the dark, but eventually he recognized Altaf’s quick gait. Considering the time of night, Asan assumed Altaf came down here to be alone, so he might have ignored him had Raheed not raised an arm and called to him. Altaf jumped, his hand grabbing for his empty scabbard. When he realized who it was, he went to the fence and leaned his elbows across the clay wall.

            “What are you two doing out here so late?” he asked.

            “I could ask the same of you,” Raheed joked. He headed closer to the wall, and Asan followed, Nutmeg trailing behind him. Once they were beneath the light of a torch burning above them, it was easier to see. Altaf’s expression was stretched and exhausted, but Asan watched him try to hide it. It was something Dasaf did often.

            “I came down to escape my family,” he muttered. “Wedding preparations and all.”

            “I did wonder why you were dressed so well.”

            “You don’t happen to have any wine with you, do you?”

            Raheed smirked and reached beneath his cloak, but Asan slapped his arm.

            “What?”

            _Don’t enable him_.

            _He’s a man now, Asan. He can have a sip of wine._

            Asan pursed his lips but didn’t stop Raheed from pulling out his wine pouch and handing it to Altaf, who took a rather generous gulp. Altaf coughed and pulled away.

            “That’s not wine. What is it?”

            “ _Arak_. Found it in the marketplace just yesterday, bought it from some _faskii_ merchant. The Hahnars aren’t so fond of it.”

            Altaf rubbed at the rim of his eye with a thumb as he coughed. “It is . . . _strong_.”

            Raheed ignored Asan’s chiding look and took back his wine pouch. “Strong men require strong drinks.”

            Asan decided that perhaps he should take command of this situation. Altaf was not down here to pull clumps of shedding hair from camel hides like them, that was for certain, and Raheed’s response was less than savory. “Congratulations on your wedding, _shuma_.”

            Altaf rubbed his forehead. “Please don’t say that. There’s nothing to celebrate.”

            “I was under the impression you _wanted_ to marry Kalila.”

            “I don’t want to marry _anyone_. I know I have to, and I figured it might as well be her. But she probably hates me. Her brother was insistent upon calling her a _prisoner_ , and I’m sure that she thinks the same. I would like to talk to her, but I’m not allowed, and even if I _were_ , what would I say? I’d probably give her more reasons to hate me. _Ugh_.” He dropped his head into his hands and hunched over the wall. Raheed looked to Asan, as if asking for his help. But what could Asan say? Asan had never been in a situation such as Altaf’s, so any advice would sound hollow.

            “She will not hate you,” Asan said. “No one hates you.”

            Altaf lifted his head and sneered. “I am weak. Everyone thinks it. While Uncle Dasaf was winning a battle, I was useless. I spent the entirety of the fight lying on the floor and hidden away. Some _Sumas_ I am.”

            “You were thirteen.”

            “My father was practically a _legend_ when he was thirteen. He first killed a man when he was eight. He began his patrols when he was twelve. And while many have choice words about my father, no one would ever call him _weak_.”

            “Weaknesses make us wise,” Asan replied. “Without failing, we learn nothing.”

            “Asan is right.” Raheed reached up as if to pat Altaf, then decided against it and pulled his hand away. What casual contact Raheed and Altaf might have shared had died away as Altaf grew, and only Dasaf ever treated him like the mischievous child he had once been. “From what I’ve heard of your father, it was his pride and impulsive thinking that led to his . . . well. You know. A good leader does not rush into battles swords swinging because he wants to prove himself. A good leader waits for the proper time. Let us hope that the _proper time_ is a long way off. I don’t think we’d weather another Mulli attack quite so well this time as last.”

            “I don’t want the Mullis to attack, but I want to _do_ something instead of standing around and pretending to be this great warrior when everyone knows I’m not. I mean, shit, I’m terrified of talking to my own wife. Every time I think about this marriage, my whole stomach heaves and I want to throw up. I wasn’t even Sumas two weeks ago! I just . . .” He pulled off his keffiyeh and ran a hand over his scalp. “It’s not just that I feel weak. It’s that I feel so clueless about _everything_. I don’t know how to run a country. My uncle has taught me and so has my mother, but there’s so much to know and so many people to disappoint. I’m the only heir. I’m all there is. I can’t fail, but like you said, I have to in order to learn. But you, Asan, can fail and no one cares. If I fail . . .”

            “Then you will fail. It is inevitable. There is nothing you can do to keep it from happening, and once you accept that, failure becomes less terrifying. You will disappoint people, but it will make you wiser—and a better Sumas,” Asan replied.

            Altaf’s chest stretched with a heavy inhale. “I just want them to see me like they see my uncle.”

            “They didn’t always revere him. They thought him weak too. His time came. So will yours.”

            “What about Kalila?”

            Raheed took over, as his knowledge of marriage was more extensive than Asan’s. “She’s going to be here a very long time, Altaf. If you are kind and you listen, respect will grow even if love does not. And a marriage based on respect is not such a bad thing. It’s more than most people have.”

            “You are the only man I know who _likes_ his wife.”

            “I have good taste.” Raheed winked, then sobered. “I believe men create much of their own misery. Marriage is what you make it. Even if Kalila is not all that you love, her children will be, and I suppose they are the purpose for the arrangement.”

            “Shit.” Altaf sighed. “As if I know anything about being a _father_ on top of a husband and a Sumas.”

            “Luckily for you, it’s easy to learn.”

            Altaf nodded, but he still appeared to lack confidence. Raheed patted his arm once before remembering to whom he was speaking.

            “I suppose it’s getting late. My own wife will start to wonder what I’ve been up to. You are young, Darim Altaf. You have your whole life to learn what you need to.” He tipped his head in Altaf’s direction, then turned to Asan. “I will see you tomorrow, Asan.”

            Raheed hopped over the paddock wall and headed up the cobblestone path to the alcazar. Altaf and Asan watched him go in silence before Asan finally turned back to Nutmeg, idly pulling more fur from her shedding coat. He watched Altaf from the corner of his eye until Altaf spoke again.

            “My uncle has never said it explicitly,” Altaf said carefully, “but I do know about his relationship with you.”

            Asan was not surprised. Everyone _knew_. It was only that no one ever spoke about it, probably thinking it too shameful to discuss. Dasaf liked to joke about running off to Bhajar, where such relationships were accepted and shared openly. That is, of course, the relationship between a rich man and a male slave. Even the Hahnars beyond the mountain did not recognize love between men who were equals. Asan didn’t know of a place in the world that did, and he’d read many books about foreign cities.

            “It’s why he never married, right?”

            Asan sighed. “If your uncle wanted to marry, I certainly would not stop him.”

            “He’s always resisted his family’s insistence that he wed. I’ve resented him for it, because if he had a son it would mean less pressure on me.” Altaf reached out a flattened hand for a curious Nutmeg to sniff. “But how can I blame him? I don’t want to marry either.”

            Asan stayed silent, scratching at the dip in the center of Nutmeg’s chest.

            “He is happy with you,” Altaf said, head lowered. “My mother castigates him for his poor decisions, but I believe she understands why he makes them. So do I. He is at his best when he is with you, and he listens to you more than anyone.”

            Smiling, Asan faced Altaf. “I am glad to have your approval.”

            “I’ve heard what some people say about my uncle and about you, but I think you are no different than anyone else. My uncle is more a father to me than anyone, and I want him to be happy, no matter how much I sometimes hate him for the responsibilities he rests on me and me alone.” Altaf bit his lip, looking uncertain. “Can you tell him that? I have not been kind to him lately, and . . . well, I know he tries, and I know that I am difficult. I’m not ready to apologize to him in person yet, but if he could show patience, I would appreciate it. I need to learn how to navigate my new role as Sumas.”

            “I will tell him, of course. He is very worried about you, but I know he only wants what is best.”

            “I know.” Altaf drew himself taller, his insecurity fading away, replaced with his usual formal courtesy. “Thank you, Asan.”

            Asan nodded, and Altaf strode away, replacing his keffiyeh and fading into the darkness. After shoving more camel hair in the bag at his hip, Asan followed him, taking his time in navigating the path until he reached the lit hallways of the alcazar. By now he was allowed into the family quarters without question, and the guard only stepped aside when he arrived at Dasaf’s bedchamber. When Asan slipped inside, Dasaf was already in bed, though he was still awake, reading by candlelight. After Asan undressed, he crawled under the covers and kissed Dasaf’s cheek.

            “Where have you been?” Dasaf asked, putting the leather-bound book down at his side.

            _Talking with Raheed and your nephew_.

            “Altaf? He should be asleep. He has a few big days ahead of him.”

            _He’ll be fine_. Asan sank deeper into his pillows, grasping Dasaf’s arm and dragging it toward him. “Now sleep.”

            Dasaf blew out the candle, then ducked down and kissed Asan’s shoulder before resting his cheek against Asan’s chest. Asan reached up to run idle fingers along the soft dusting of hair along Dasaf’s scalp. Altaf would marry in two days, and then he would be the true Sumas. He would grow a beard as thick as Dasaf’s, as he was the oldest man in his immediate family. Then Khamal would grow to love him as they had his uncle before him, and Asan had no doubts about that. He was just glad that he’d get to see it all unfold. And while it did, Asan would have both his fiercest friend and his greatest love—Raheed and Dasaf.

            As to which was which, Asan didn’t much know the difference.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's it folks. It's been a wild ride. Thank you all for reviewing- it helped me keep writing! If anyone has questions that they want answered, you can always hit me up on my [Tumblr](http://wandarox.tumblr.com/). I have a picture of Raheed's kids on there, if anyone is interested in seeing them, or any of my work in general.
> 
> In case anyone wonders . . . Asan is a much better speaker now because he's had five years of practice speaking aloud.
> 
> If you like this world and don't want to leave, no worries! You can see Asan and Dasaf in my webcomic [Rainbow Mansion](http://rainbow-mansion.smackjeeves.com/) but it's kind of a silly thing and it's set during contemporary times, so you can check out all of Dasaf's dope suits. They will be competing in a stupid reality show with all of my other gay characters, and drama will go down.
> 
> Also, I have a [story idea](http://pseudocide335.deviantart.com/art/The-Bhanak-Zhalja-449479318) in the works that will focus on Samid and Malli, and what will happen to them. I haven't worked out all the details, but I know Samid ends up in Bhajar, so we can all meet the Hahnars beyond the mountain. :) It'll be horribly depressing and angsty- you know, the usual, lol. Strangely, lots of gay stuff will happen, even if pretty much no one is actually gay. But straight stuff too, obviously.
> 
> And if you like my writing, well, there's a whole bunch of long ass stories of mine on [Fictionpress](https://www.fictionpress.com/u/652414/Wanda-Walker) you can read, ahahaha. I don't plan on posting any more stories on AO3. From what I've heard from pretty much everyone is that they discourage original works on this site, so while I like the layout and everything, I think I'm more welcome elsewhere. I will always be posting on Fictionpress nonetheless, as much as I hate that site, because I have the best reception there. 
> 
> THANKS AGAIN TO EVERYONE.


End file.
